Predator
by emptycel
Summary: John Watson just wanted a normal year at school, but as soon as he met his roommate he had the feeling that wasn't going to happen. WIth a sexual predator loose at Baker Academy, John is finding himself caught up in the crime solving whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

John looked up at the towering façade with a small shiver. His fear was irrational, he knew, but it settled in his stomach like a heavy weight. It was just another school, after all. He'd been to enough by now to understand how the routine usually went. He went in, introduced myself to a few people, met his roommate, and went through the motions of going to class until it was time for his inevitable departure.

That was the life of a military brat.

_Listen here_, he told himself sternly, marching up the front steps, _you have done this a dozen times before. There is no need to be nervous._

But there was, in a sense. This was going to be his last school. John made that deal with his parents years ago. He could spend his last year before University in the same place, no matter where his Dad was stationed. If he made a poor impression here, he was stuck with it.

The thought was not boding well.

BakerAcademy was not exactly prestigious, but not bottom rung either. John's family wouldn't have been able to afford it if it weren't for his small scholarship. It wasn't anything fancy, just a small grant that military families could apply for. It covered some of tuition and a little room and board, just enough to get by on.

Other students were milling around the beautifully manicured front lawn, already in the cliques they established first year. John trudged through the groups, keeping his head down, happy, not for the first time, that he wasn't exactly the kind of bloke that drew a lot of attention. He was on the short side, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. He didn't stand out in a crowd.

John hoisted his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and pushed the front door open, stepping into a clean, brightly lit hallway lined with classrooms and offices. He studied the map in his hand to make sure he was going in the right direction before marching forward, heading deeper into the school.

"Hey," someone called, a deliberate attempt to catch someone's attention that John instinctively ignored. "You! Hey! New guy!" John looked up reflexively this time, searching for the source of the voice. He smiled politely at the husky student that had called out.

"Yes?" John asked politely, shifting from foot to foot. He'd sprained his right ankle badly a couple months ago and his leg was getting stiff under the weight of his backpack and duffel. He just wanted to find his room and set his things down.

"I'm Mike," the boy, who looked John's age, said with a jovial smile. John smiled back more genuinely, liking the guy instantly for his genuine expression. "Mike Stamford. Mrs. Hudson sent me to intercept you before you got lost in this bloody labyrinth."

"Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, adjusting his bag again and trying to ignore the uncomfortable pain in his leg.

"School counselor," Mike said, gesturing for John to follow him. "Nice lady. I'm her office aid. She sends me to do errands for her sometimes, but I usually just end up getting force fed tea and biscuits." Mike patted his round stomach. "It's been adding up, I'm afraid."

He laughed loudly, and John joined in hesitantly. Mike continued confidently down the corridor and John followed close behind.

Mike had been right, after just a few moments of following him John was already lost in the twists and turns of the academy.

"This school is alright," Mike continued, smiling and waving at people he knew. "There's better, I'm sure, but she holds her own. The food's good and most of the professors know what they're doing, although our music department is a bit weak and our football team is atrocious. Can't stand some of the underclassmen, but most of our last year is nice. Lot of fun blokes to hang out with, at least. Ah, here we are." He stopped in front of one of the office doors, identical to every other door John had seen so far. He had no idea how he was going to recognize it again.

Mike opened the door without ceremony and ushered John inside. It was a pleasant room, with cream colored walls, wooden floors, a vase of flowers on a desk, and a pink upholstered arm chair where students sat as they spoke to their counselor. Mrs. Hudson herself was nowhere in sight until Mike cleared his throat loudly.

A grey haired head popped up from behind the desk, startling John so badly he nearly lost his balance.

"There you are dear," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at John as though he was a long lost grandson. "Sorry about that! I was just looking for a pen I dropped. I'm always losing things I'm afraid." She extended her hand to John and he shook it, surprised by the strength in her grip. Her hands looked deceptively frail, but there was steel in her eyes that John instinctively admired.

"John Watson, correct?" she asked. She gestured to the arm chair. "Have a sit, dear. Mike, could you sort through some of the files in the back and get out Mr. Watson's room assignment and schedule? I'm afraid it's a bit a mess in here, dear," she said, leaning over the desk to speak confidentially to John. "Mike's a bit lacking when it comes to cleaning up, to tell you the truth."

"I can hear you!" Mike informed her from his position six feet away. "Here we are! Watson, John." He handed the file to Mrs. Hudson, who pulled out a few brightly colored papers that she examined briefly, her face lighting up at one of them.

"Oh, you'll just love your roommate," she said, smiling brightly at the paper. "One of my favorite students, actually," she whispered, as though it was her greatest secret.

John accepted the papers and put them with his map and the orientation information he had received in the mail. "Will that be all?" he inquired politely.

"Oh, goodness no!" Mrs. Hudson said, her hands suddenly a flurry above her desk. "Where are my manners? I've completely forgotten to welcome you to the school." She settled down and gave John a warm smile. "Normally we don't make a fuss for new students, but I glanced at your transcripts and my heart went out to you, poor dear. _Nine _different schools in four years? Well, I thought that they must not have given you a good welcome if you hadn't stayed, so I thought it best to greet you myself and make sure that you don't start itching to get up and go before you've gotten a chance to settle! I want you to come to me if you ever need help, or if you just want a spot of tea and a biscuit! My office is always open."

"Resist the biscuits, mate," Mike advised, leaning in and stage whispering to John. "I swear she puts something in them. They're too addictive to be legal."

"Oh, stop it Mike!" Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh. "Go and show John where his room is. And be sure to introduce him to his roommate."

"Yes ma'am," Mike said with a laugh. John left the room in high spirits. If everyone at BakerAcademy was a friendly as Mike and as sweet as Mrs. Hudson, he wasn't going to have any problems here.

"Let me see your room assignment." Mike took John's offered paper and read it quickly, his expression first one of shock before it dissolved into mirth. "So that's who Mrs. Hudson was talking about! Makes sense, of course."

"What?" John tried to get another look at the paper, as though the unfamiliar name would suddenly mean something to him.

"He's…a bit eccentric, your roommate. Honestly, you're the first person administration has tried to bunk with him since last September. After what happened to the first one… I mean, I think he's a good guy, but…"

Uh oh. John wasn't liking the sound of this.

"I actually think you might get on," Mike finally decided, seeming surprised at his own thought. "I hope so, anyway. For your sake."

"What?" John repeated, the happy feelings draining from his body.

"Let's see," Mike continued, ignoring him. "Hall B, room 221. Second floor. Not ideal, but it's a real nice dormitory, if I remember correctly. I haven't been there in a bit, but most of the lads are jealous that the school freak gets it all to himself."

"School freak?" John asked, the derogatory label a shock coming from Mike. Mike blinked, as though he wasn't aware of what he just said.

"Oh, ignore that," Mike said hastily. "I didn't mean it, not really. I do like the bloke, I swear. It's just what some of the other guys say, it tends to rub off. He's actually really interesting. He calls himself a detective. Seventeen years old and he's decided that he's a detective solving crimes."

They made a sudden right and continued down another corridor lined with doors. This one was filled with a bustling crowd of students, most of them with luggage of their own.

"Dorm Hall B is just through here," Mike said, pushing his way though the students and forcing his way over the threshold of the open double doors. "There we are." Mike pointed to a small plaque on the wall that confirmed their position.

"Room 221," John repeated, looking at the numbers next to the doors.

"We'll have to go up," Mike said, gesturing to the staircase at the end of the corridor. "Come along then." Mike set off again, and John followed the best he could, but at this point the stiff pain in his leg had created an awkward limp.

"This school is a lot bigger on the inside," John commented as they started up the staircases. Mike laughed.

"Yeah, deceptive like that, isn't it? Looks like your average academy on the outside, and on the inside it's a freaking marathon just to get to your classes on time."

They reached the landing of the second floor, and from there it was a brief stroll until they reached room 221.

"This is it," Mike said, slightly winded from the trip up the stairs. He knocked lightly on the door and there was the sound of glass shattering. "Oh dear," Mike said before the door opened.

A humorless young man regarded Mike with vague annoyance before zeroing in on John with boldfaced curiosity. John stared back, too startled by the intensity of the gaze to look away. The boy was tall, much taller than John, and lanky. He arms and legs seemed too long for the rest of his body, and he was thin and pale enough to look as though he was suffering from a long term illness. Dramatic cheekbones cast shadows over an otherwise gaunt face and silver eyes focused on John as though he could see right through him. John gulped, fidgeting. The stranger ran an elegant hand through tangled black curls before stepping aside.

"Well, come on then," he said, his voice deep enough to make John double take, trying to equate the rich timber with the nearly skeletal boy in the doorway. "I suppose you're the new roommate."

"John Watson," John said nervously, edging his way past the young man carefully.

"This is Sherlock Holmes," Mike said, waving at Sherlock.

"Hi," Sherlock said flatly to Mike, seeming bored with the social interaction already.

Mike grinned at John and shrugged. "Well," he said, "I'll just leave you to it then." Mike waved and set off back down the hallway with a slightly forced spring in his step.

John turned towards the room and stared at it appreciatively. It was much bigger than he was expecting, more than enough room for two beds, two dressers, and two desks. Sherlock had also managed to cram what looked like an entire chemistry set onto one table and a full bookshelf between his bed and the wall.

John set his stuff on the other bed as Sherlock shut the door. He took a sleek cell phone out of his pocket and began tapping away busily. John sighed. He had been hoping for a little get-to-know-you conversation, but it seemed that wouldn't be the case. Instead he sat down and began to stretch his leg.

Sherlock huffed in irritation for a moment, shaking his phone.

"Alright?" John asked, watching his new roommate in fascination.

"Battery died," Sherlock muttered, tossing the phone onto his bed.

"Do you need mine?" John offered without thinking, taking his out of his pocket. Sherlock looked at him, blinking in grateful surprise, and accepted the device mutely.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked after a moment of silence.

"What?" John jumped at the question.

"Your father. Where was he deployed? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John froze, staring up at Sherlock with a combination of confusion and a little fear. "Afghanistan," he said at last. "How did you…?"

"Here," Sherlock said, handing the phone back. "Feel free to unpack your things, just don't touch my stuff."

Sherlock moved to the chemistry set where he stooped down to begin picking up small pieces of glass, the source of the shattering sound.

"What's that?" John asked. Sherlock looked up at him in annoyance.

"An experiment," he said shortly. "I do them from time to time. I hope you won't mind."

"I don't," John said honestly. "So long as you don't expect me to understand them."

"Oh, I don't expect you to," Sherlock said flatly.

John bit his lip. "Would you mind telling me how you knew-?"

"While we're on the subject," Sherlock interrupted, "I also can go days without speaking and I have a tendency to play the violin when I'm thinking. Do you think that will be a problem?"

John blinked, trying to keep up. Sherlock spoke at a mile a minute, and John was having issues following him.

"I don't have anything against the violin," he said at last.

"That's good," Sherlock said, chucking the glass into a bin and starting out of the room.

"Where are you going?" John asked as Sherlock opened the door.

"I think I've left some toxic chemicals in the dining hall, I thought I'd retrieve them before a potentially grievous mistake was made. Did you need something from me?" Sherlock asked, looking annoyed.

"It's just-" John sputtered, trying to put his thoughts into words. "We've just met, we know nothing about each other, and we're going to be roommates for the next year. I just thought we'd introduce ourselves a bit."

Sherlock sighed and closed the door again. "Fine," he said, turning to face John completely. He looked him up and down. "You're a military brat. Your father was stationed in Afghanistan. You have an older brother you don't get on with, probably because he parties too much and you disapprove of the lifestyle. You injured your foot badly a short time ago, your doctor told you it should be better by now but a small limp persists, probably psychosomatic, so it's likely that you're having other problems at home and the injury is taking some pressure off of you, although whether its sympathy or physical inability that's doing the trick, I'm not sure. Now if you don't mind I really have to leave before some idiot takes a fancy to drinking the caustic chemicals I've left sitting around. Have a good morning. I'll see you in orientation." With that, Sherlock opened the door, winked and walked out.

John exhaled very slowly and put his head in his hands.

This was going to be a long year.


	2. Chapter 2

((A/N) By the way, I've never written a fanfiction before. I'm brand new to this, please give me some feedback so I can get an idea of how I'm doing!)

John examined his schedule and tried to match the room numbers to the different areas of the school. Even on paper the place was bloody confusing.

He glanced at the clock and cursed. Orientation was starting in twenty minutes and he had no idea where the main reception hall was.

He stumbled out of the room, ignoring his stiff leg, and headed in the only direction he still remembered—out of Hall B.

John was unconsciously stomping, annoyed but trying to pretend that nothing was bothering him. How? How could someone know so much about him so fast? It wasn't even as though he could have figured something out by asking around. John was brand new. And Harry's drinking? He never talked about that. Not to anyone.

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn't paying enough care to his surroundings, which led him to running directly into a student with an armful of books. The entire stack crashed to the ground.

"I am so sorry!" John sputtered, immediately bending to pick them all up.

"Don't worry about it!" the girl assured him. "I wasn't paying any attention to where I was going."

"Well, neither was I," John muttered, handing the girl her books. She was tiny and cute, with auburn hair and a shy smile. "I'm John," he introduced himself.

"Molly," she replied, balancing the stack in one arm as she shook his had. "Are you new here?" she asked.

John nodded. Her face fell slightly.

"What is it?" John asked, startling at the vivid blush that bloomed over her cheeks.

"It's nothing," she said, her eyes downcast. John was fairly well versed in the strange language of young women (Harry had made sure of that) so he was well aware that there was, in fact, something. He folded his arms and waited patiently. "I was just looking for someone," she finally answered, blushing deeper. "But you're new, you won't know him."

John laughed. "You've got a point there. I've only met Mike Stamford and my completely mental roommate. And you, I guess." For an instant John considered flirting, but quickly disabused himself of the thought. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Molly was obviously infatuated with someone else. "Could you help me real fast?" he asked as she started to edge away.

"Of course," she responded readily.

"Can you point me in the direction of the Main Reception Hall? I have no idea where anything is."

Molly smiled and gave him brief directions that John tried to commit to memory. He thanked the sweet girl and she scurried away, in search of…whoever it was she was looking for.

John ignored the map and followed Molly's directions. With minor backtracking he made it to the Reception Hall just in time for the beginnings of Orientation. John sat in the back, distancing himself from the first years who were chattering excitedly with each other, looking rather like a pack of caffeinated squirrels.

The Reception Hall was a large lecture room with rows of seats staggered up, looking down at a sunken stage where a projector was flipping through the slides of a power point. A professor spoke into a microphone, reading the litany of useless material from each individual frame.

There was a flurry of movement at his side before someone rushed into the seat next to him, collapsing limply. John glanced up, surprised to find that Sherlock had joined him. The pale boy settled in his seat, pocketing a corked test tube as he did so. John had half hoped that Sherlock had been kidding about toxic chemicals, but evidently that was not the case.

Something occurred to John as a professor began droning on about safety guidelines.

"You aren't new," he whispered to Sherlock. It was a statement, not a question.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered, glancing around the room rapidly.

"Then why are you at Orientation?"

Sherlock smirked at him briefly before turning his attention back to the students again. John thought he was going to ignore the question before Sherlock finally answered.

"I skipped it last year," he said shortly. "And I thought that it would be a good chance to catalogue the freshmen." He pointed out an athletic looking kid who was constantly distracting those around him from the lecture. "Abused at home, vents the anger he holds towards his manipulative mother and deadbeat father in contact sports. He gets no attention in his house, so he tries to get as much as he can at school, positive and negative. He'll be a problem student." Sherlock pointed out an intelligent looking child who was obviously bored with the reception. "Kleptomaniac. Just before we came in here he stole another boy's watch. That girl is a spelling bee champion with an irrational fear of clowns. There, that boy volunteers at an animal hospital, and that girl there was a dancing protégée until an injury three years ago which left her unable to continue lessons. And there-"

"You can't do this," John finally interrupted. Sherlock glanced back at him, looking annoyed and bored. "People can't just…know everything about someone like that. You've got to be making it up."

"Did I make up everything about you?" Sherlock asked, something mischievous dancing in his verdigris eyes. "I was right about it, wasn't I? It's the science of deduction, Watson. Everything you ever need to know is right before you, you just have to see it."

"Then how?"John finally asked, his voice beginning to hinge on desperation. "How did you know everything about me?"

Sherlock glanced at him warily before smirking. "Your backpack," he began. "You set it down with your duffel as soon as you came into the room. It wasn't the standard backpack that you get at the market, oh no. It was military grade, designed for a combative soldier, and the coloring of the camouflage suggests a desert environment. The design is several years old, which logically suggest that the conflict took place in either Afghanistan or Iraq.

"How did I know it was your father? That's more complicated. Your family wouldn't be able to afford this school on their own, the duct tape sealing up a hole on the duffel bag speaks volumes on that end alone. That necessitates some sort of scholarship or grant to give you admission. Your right leg troubles you, so you wouldn't be here for sports. Therefore, the remaining conclusions are academics or the military scholarship offered by the school. The deduction there was obvious, the backpack _was _right there after all. The scholarship calls for a close family member, meaning it had to be your older brother or one of your parents. You hold yourself with military style, straight back, squared shoulders, and arms at ease. This suggests imitation from a figure you look up to, most likely your father since you disapprove of your brother's habits."

"How… did you know about Harry?" John finally interjected, feeling defensive on his sibling's behalf.

Sherlock grinned and continued to speak. "Ah, your brother. The duffel bag used to be his. The tag on it says as much, although 'Harry' has been crossed out and your own name has been written above it. There are stains on the bag that belong to a yellowish brown substance, although that could be apple juice as easily as beer. Your phone, however, confirms alcoholism. A flip phone, several years out of date, therefore it's most likely to be a hand me down, which is not surprising in a home with your family's economic status. The phone is very banged up, frequently dropped, and there are small scuff marks near the port for the charger. The owner's fine motor skills are frequently impaired. He fumbles and drops the phone when he calls for a ride, and his hand trembles when he plugs it back in for the night. Therefore, you brother is a drinker, most likely a partier due to his age. At university now, correct? At any rate, this behavior is not uncommon in a dysfunctional household; it's likely a rebellion against your strict military father.

"This brings us to the limp. Your ankle was sprained, that much is obvious from the way you're still used to putting your weight on it, but you no longer wear any sort of bandage or brace. It's all healed up then, but you have a tendency to revert to the limp. Unless there is an internal reason for the limp to stick around, it is probably partly psychosomatic due to the stress in your household. As to whether it's a cry for a detached parent's attention or a defense mechanism to avoid abuse, I honestly can't say, although I'm leaning more towards emotional negligence than physical violence. Did I get anything incorrect?"

John gaped at Sherlock, trying to fathom how someone could possibly do what he just did.

"That was…" John finally sputtered, "absolutely amazing."

"Amazing?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly to the side as though the compliment surprised him.

"Yes, of course," John said, his voice still hushed. "What else?"

Sherlock was quiet for a second.

"That's not what people normally say," he said thoughtfully.

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"'Piss off,'" Sherlock replied dryly.

John was lost to a convulsion of giggles. After a moment Sherlock joined him. They laughed until a professor sternly banished them from the Reception Hall.

"I wonder what I was supposed to have learned," John wondered as they were forced back into the corridor.

"Nothing of value," Sherlock assured him. "'Don't break the rules' and 'make sure to give big donations when you graduate,' that sort of thing, I'm sure." Sherlock was didn't say anything for a moment as they walked back to their dormitory. "_Did_ I get everything right?" he asked after a brief hesitation.

"What?" John didn't quite follow.

"About you, did I get everything right? I'm still working out the kinks in this science; feedback is critical."

John sighed. "My father was stationed in Afghanistan. He started hitting the bottle hard when he came back. Funds have been low; they're being used to support his habits. Harry, instead of learning from him, drinks to forget about it."

"All of it, then? I didn't think I'd done that well." Sherlock seemed pleased with himself.

"Harry is short for Harriet," John added with a small smile.

Sherlock scowled. "Sister! Argh, there's always something."

"It was still bloody brilliant," John assured him, still blown away by the display. "Absolutely fantastic."

"Oy!" a familiar voice called. John and Sherlock simultaneously turned around to look behind them. "There you two are! Glad to see you're getting along, then!" Mike trotted up to them with a small package in his hands. He passed it to Sherlock. "Mrs. Hudson is having me run errands again. But look at you! Class hasn't even started yet and you're getting mail."

"Interesting," Sherlock said, pocketing the package. Mike looked like he was expecting some sort of explanation, but John was learning that he likely wouldn't get anything. "Give Mrs. Hudson my regards. I'll be at our appointment tomorrow afternoon, most likely."

Sherlock started wandering off. John prepared to follow him, but Mike caught his arm.

"Getting on with him, then?" Mike asked, excitement bright in his eyes. John grinned.

"He's a little off, but I might be able to get used to him," John answered honestly. "Although it's only been an hour."

"An hour is more than enough to get a clear picture of Sherlock Holmes," Mike laughed. "The fact that you haven't already demanded a room reassignment is a blessing in itself! You two will be thick as thieves in the week!"

John was skeptical. He couldn't see Sherlock becoming pals with anyone. John assumed that he was being allowed to tag along because Sherlock was bored.

"Right," he said halfheartedly. "I'm going to go head back to my room, unpack a bit. I'll catch you later?"

"Sure thing!" Mike said. "Have a good one!"

John turned away with a small smile and walked alone for about a minute before he realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was or where he was going. With a long suffering sigh he took his map out of his pocket again and began to navigate.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

(A/N: This is where the story begins to diverge from the standard exposition. I'm sorry for the slow set up! Hopefully this will be more interesting.)

"I'm bored," Sherlock declared that afternoon. John looked up from his papers. He had been attempting to memorize his schedule and the map of campus. Sherlock, in the meantime, had conducted some sort of chemical experiment, studied something under the microscope for an hour, and paced around the room for what seemed like an eternity.

"It's one o'clock on the first day," John pointed out. Sherlock scowled at him.

"I don't care, I'm bored," he repeated, flopping down on his bed.

"Fancy getting lunch then?" John asked. He hoped that he could take the opportunity to get to know Sherlock a little better. He had asked him a few questions when he finally found his way back to the dorm, but Sherlock had declined to answer.

"I don't eat," Sherlock replied, his tone already stubborn, expecting an argument.

"I can tell," John commented sarcastically. Sherlock was the skinniest person he had ever seen. The young man was a study of sharp angles. John paused. "Do you really never eat?"

"I don't eat unless I have to eat," Sherlock amended. "My mind is the most important bit, the rest is just transport. I refuel as little as I can."

"Um," John wasn't sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to give a lecture on the importance of proper nutrition, but he had a feeling that it would fall on deaf ears. "Well then, what do you want to do, if you're so bored?"

"I want a puzzle," Sherlock said petulantly.

"Like a game?" John asked helplessly.

"No! I want a mystery! A case!" Sherlock sat up.

John frowned before remembering something Mike said. "You're a…detective, correct?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, getting to his feet. "I find going to school ridiculous. I'm already a professional, after all. I'm a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job last year."

"What does a consulting detective do?" John said, feeling like he was humoring a small child who decided that they wanted to be a space cowboy.

"Not as much as I would like," Sherlock muttered. "I give the police tips when I can, but I am limited. My age is my greatest annoyance, the police don't seem to think they can maintain credibility when they go to a seventeen year old for advice. Occasionally I will get asked to anonymously consult, but it's far too rare."

"What do you do in the meantime?" John asked, watching his manic roommate in fascination.

"Try to stave of boredom by assisting this school's inept prefects."

"Baker's has prefects?" John groaned. Sherlock gave a rare, genuine smile.

"Your reaction is appropriate. They think they're the law in this school, but they're completely incompetent. At this point, if something happens they just ask me to clear it up. It is pointless and barely stimulating but it is better than nothing, and right now, I have nothing." Sherlock leaned against the wall. "Few students will act out the first week of the term; I can't expect anything worthwhile for another month at the least." Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. "I need something interesting!"

"I'm sure something will turn up," John said in hesitant reassurance. "Teenagers aren't exactly known for their wise judgment."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "No," he said at last. "They're not."

The next morning, John packed his bags while feeling as though a heavy weight was resting on his shoulders. He had to make a good first impression with _a lot_ of professors and classmates.

The twitchy genius that was by turns hovering over his shoulder and glancing at a microscope was only making it worse.

"Do you ever sit still?" John finally snapped as Sherlock continued to flutter around the room.

"Sometimes I don't move for hours," Sherlock answered without thinking. "Or days. It depends a bit. Are you quite done backing your bag yet? You've been staring at that notebook for two minutes and forty six seconds."

"I'm just thinking," John sighed. Sherlock gave one brief bark of laughter at the idea of John using his brain. "What about you then? Aren't you going to get ready?"

"I am ready," Sherlock said, pointing to an expensive looking laptop. "That's all I need. Are you quite done? I want to check something before we go to class."

John paused. "Are we going to class together?" he asked, the familiarity of it seeming out of character for Sherlock.

"We have first period at the same time, it is logical. Besides, I need you to deflect some idiots for me." With that Sherlock scooped up his laptop, put it in a bag designed for carrying such a device, and whirled out of the room.

John sighed, slung his backpack over his shoulders and followed Sherlock quickly, locking the door behind him as he went. Sherlock had remembered to give him a key the last night, but not before John had left to use the lavatory and found himself locked out at midnight. Fortunately, Sherlock never seemed to sleep. He spent the entire night reading or making an unreasonable amount of noise with his chemistry set.

Sherlock was already striding through the corridor at a rapid pace, and John had to trot briefly just to keep up.

The corridors were bursting with rushing, panicked students anxious to start the first day of term, but, freshmen and seniors alike, all of them instinctively made a path for the unstoppable force that was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, for lack of better terminology, stood out. It wasn't just his appearance, which was eye catching enough, but the confident, arrogant way that he carried himself. It was apparent to anyone that looked at him that this was a superior specimen of _homo sapiens_. But there was little admiration from this deference. Instead he heard the word that had accidentally slipped from Mike's lips the day before.

_Freak_.

John's loyalty to his roommate was tenuous, but strong enough that he bristled at the casual use of the insult. However, and this utterly baffled John, Sherlock didn't seem to care, or even hear, what people said about him. Sherlock was only focused on the hurricane of thoughts in his mind and on the steps that would bring him to his destination.

_Speaking of which_…

"Where are we going?" John asked before he became completely lost in the twisting hallways.

"Dorm Hall A," Sherlock replied. "I have someone I need to speak with and I need you to distract someone who wants to speak with me, if we run into him. I really don't have time for him this morning; I have to check on an experiment."

"Okay," John said, resigning himself to being Sherlock's distraction. What else was he going to do that morning anyway? Spend twenty minutes trying to decide which pen he should bring to his first day of class? John mutely accepted his role and lengthened his stride to try and match Sherlock.

Sherlock did not casually stroll. Every step devoured distance like a starving man devoured a meal. John was breathing heavily by the time they reached Hall A.

Sherlock stopped in front of a door and knocked on it insistently until it was opened. An attractive girl with clear brown skin and big, dark eyes stared back at him with a scowl. John noticed after a second that she had some sort of badge pinned onto her uniform.

"Sally, meet John," Sherlock said. "Molly!" he called into the room. The cute girl with auburn hair from yesterday poked her head out into the hallway.

"Hi, Sherlock," she said, blushing pink as soon as she saw him.

"Oh, hello Molly," John said out of reflex. Molly glanced at him for the first time, looking confused before smiling hesitantly.

"You've met," Sherlock commented apathetically. "Good, saves introductions. John, talk to Sally."

Sherlock moved passed the irritated young woman who was still partially blocking the doorway.

"Hi," John said, feeling phenomenally uncomfortable.

"What are you doing following the Freak around?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. John shifted from foot to foot, his leg suddenly bothering him again. "He doesn't have friends, so don't try to pull that."

"We're roommates," John answered honestly. For half a second Sally looked at him with something closer to pity before her features settled back into an irritated scowl.

"Shame," Sally said. "If I were you, I'd spend as little time with him as possible."

"Why?" John asked, partially defensive, partially genuinely curious.

"Sherlock Holmes…" Sally seemed to have trouble finding the words. She glanced back at the room behind her before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door. "Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath. He's the kid that would pull off a butterfly's wings just to see how long it would take to die. Every school has someone like him, and trust me when I tell you that he isn't safe to be around. One day he's going to get bored experimenting on dead rats and he's going to hurt someone."

The scary thing was that Sally seemed one hundred percent serious. John felt a small knot of fear sink in his stomach before his own experience with Sherlock eased it away. Sherlock was…odd, yes, but John couldn't see him as violent or dangerous.

He opened his mouth to speak when Sally suddenly directed her attention to someone else.

"And who is this?" someone behind John asked in a slightly rough accent.

"The Freak's got himself a roommate," Sally told the student.

John looked to see a young man; most likely a senior, just above average height and with dark hair, adjusting a badge on his jacket. It was identical to the one Sally wore.

"Greg Lestrade," he said, offering his hand. John shook it, his fingers lost in the powerful grip. "And you are?"

"John Watson." They broke apart. "Pleasure."

"Sherlock's roommate, you said?" Greg smiled a big, genuine smile. "Well, that will be interesting. I can't say I envy you."

"It's alright," John said, changing the subject. "Are you prefects?"

"Yeah," Greg said, waving it off. "But not much happens here. We basically just tell people to stop running in the hallways."

"Sherlock was saying that he helps out occasionally," John prompted politely, trying to ignore the urge to ask them ten billion questions about his frustratingly private roommate.

"Oh, if something actually happens, you know, something gets stolen or a huge fight breaks out and we can't figure out how or why, then Sherlock comes around and fixes it in a couple minutes. I feel bad," Greg added, ignoring Sally's deepening scowl. "I wish I could give him something more interesting but-"

"Nothing interesting ever happens," Sherlock interrupted as he opened the door. He pocketed a sealed plastic bag as he emerged from Molly's room. John caught a glimpse of its contents and wasn't sure if he wanted to know exactly what it was. "But that's to be expected."

"In the future, _Freak_," Sally spat, "please don't keep experiments in my room." Sally pushed passed Sherlock and went inside, slamming the door behind her. Greg exhaled slowly in the awkward silence that followed.

"I wanted to talk to you, by the way," Greg finally said to Sherlock. Sherlock immediately started to walk away.

"I don't want to talk to you. Talk to John instead. John, makes friends," Sherlock commanded, leaving them both behind.

John ran a hand through his hair, already feeling exhausted. "Always like that, is he?" John inquired. Greg laughed.

"Oh, always," Greg assured him. He pulled out his phone to check the time. "Oh, it's nearly time for class. Do you know where you're going?"

"Not really," John admitted. "Can you point me to the biology rooms?"

Brief instructions were given and John left Greg with a fervent thanks.

John traced the path that Sherlock must have taken, biting back a wave of irrational disappointment. He knew that Sherlock didn't exactly care for his company, but he didn't think he would find himself so readily abandoned in an unfamiliar part of the school.

He located the room a minute before the bell was scheduled to ring. As he anticipated, Sherlock was already in the class, lounging carelessly in one of the desks, his limbs slightly too long for comfortable accommodation.

A pretty brunette glanced at him and gave him a smile as he entered. He smiled back and searched for his name on a seating chart posted on the front board. He was near the cute brunette. He grinned at that. John sat in his assigned seat at the back of the class and took out a notebook. The cute girl leaned over to speak to him.

"Are you new?" she asked, smiling. John noticed her eyes were very green.

"Yes," he answered. "Today's my first day."

"I hope you like it here," she said, turning away to speak to a girlfriend of hers. John glowed a happy pink and waited for class to start.

The bell rang and there was no sign of a teacher. Molly Hooper poked her head in guiltily and, finding the coast clear, quickly slipped into her seat. Still no teacher.

"Well, this is tedious," Sherlock finally declared. Almost as if he was waiting for Sherlock to say something, the professor entered the room, slightly breathless and his tie askew. He a briefcase down on the desk, straightened his tie, and walked to the front of the room.

"Hello class," he said, picking up a dry erase marker. "I'm sorry I'm late. I got dragged away a few minutes ago to answer a call. The reception here is terrible. I was outside before I could get a single bar of signal." He wrote his name on the board. _Mr. Z_. "Trust me when I tell you that my initial is much easier to say than my last name." He turned back to face the room.

Mr. Z was in his mid to late twenties, with messy brown hair, glasses, and what looked like a coffee stain on the collar of his white shirt. John wasn't sure what to make of him immediately, but took comfort seeing that he wasn't the only nervous wreck.

John couldn't help but glance at Sherlock, wondering what his opinion was, what he had deduced. He merely looked bored and was staring at the ceiling as though something would magically drop down and entertain him.

"I'll let you guys mingle for a bit," Mr. Z said, moving back towards his desk. "I need to organize some things, so chat with each other for a few minutes."

John immediately tried to see who he might be able to make friends with. Cute brunette had already moved into one of those impenetrable herds of friends that no guy could hope to join. John sighed and searched for a different prospect. A group of lads had formed in one of the corners of the room. He glanced over at them until one of the guys gave him a nod of invitation.

"I'm John," he said, joining the group and shaking hands. "John Watson."

"Nice to meet you, Watson," a friendly if rather bland boy said. "The name's Trevor. Trevor Thompson, and before you ask, yes, I do appreciate alliteration."

"Bryce," another said, a red head with very blue eyes. "Bryce Kent. How do you do?"

"Ian," a blonde introduced himself. "Ian Richmond."

"Sam Prince," said a boy with eyes and hair the same shade of dark brown.

"Stanley Myers," finished the last, a boy as tall as Sherlock with the fairest hair that John had ever seen. It was nearly white.

"Pleasure," John said. With the introductions completed they began a rather generic conversation about football that John was just happy to be a part of.

"Alright, alright," Mr. Z called, moving back up to the front of the room. "Sit down. And don't worry about the assigned seats. Sit wherever you like."

John sat near but not really with the group of guys he had been chatting with, trying to strategically locate himself near cute brunette as well, then twitched in surprise when Sherlock relocated his seat next to John.

"I wouldn't waste my time with them," Sherlock muttered, flicking his gaze over at the boys. "They're dull. Besides, Ian is cheating on his girlfriend, Trevor has serious anxiety problems, Sam—"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, lightly scolding. "It's fine."

Sherlock looked annoyed but actually stopped speaking for once. He took out his laptop and began clicking away instead.

"If I could have your attention," Mr. Z said pointedly. Sherlock ignored him. Mr. Z cleared his throat. Sherlock continued to type. It briefly appeared there would be a battle of wills before Mr. Z shrugged and began the lesson.

John found himself paying more attention to his roommate than the lesson, trying to pick apart the puzzle he presented. One moment Sherlock is abandoning John, when he new very well that John had no idea where he was, and the next he was sitting next to him as though it was his God given right.

John was beginning to get annoyed.

The ring of the bell was a merciful reprieve. John picked up his things and walked out, already headed to his next class.

Sherlock remained in his desk, typing as though he was running out of time to do so.

John hadn't thought that he hated violin music. But at two o'clock in the morning, after a long and exhausting first day of school, it was not something that he wanted to hear.

"Can you please stop?" he finally moaned. Sherlock responded by playing several notes that sounded more akin to nails on a chalkboard than music before continuing.

John was about to get up and forcibly take away the violin when an ear shattering scream echoed through the entire dorm hall. He and Sherlock locked eyes briefly before they tore out of the room and tried to find the source.

"What's happening?" John wondered out loud.

Sherlock smiled the biggest, most genuine smile John had seen from him.

"Something interesting."


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: The game is on.)

It was on the first floor, a small group of students were already gathered in the middle of the corridor. A girl John vaguely recognized stumbled out of her room, blood staining her pajamas. She was in his biology class, John realized, the pretty brunette who had talked with him. He hadn't caught her name.

"What happened?" someone was asking her. She was trembling. John knew shock when he saw it. He tried to make the crowd back away from her, pushing people back and ordering them to make room.

"I don't-" she stopped. Her words were slightly slurred and her eyes were a bit out of focus. "I-"

"She's been drugged," Sherlock declared. He stepped forward, looking for the entire world like he was in charge of the situation. He was the only one not in pajamas, and his uniform didn't have a single crease; it was completely pristine. Among the sleep rumbled students he exuded an authority that resulted in complete deference from his classmates.

Sherlock pulled out a small flashlight from his pocket. "You," he said, nodding to a random student. "Please get the head prefect, Gregory Lestrade. I'd rather speak to him before security got involved. He's in Dorm Hall A."

The student ran off. John recognized him as Ian from their biology class. The thought was fleeting, unimportant in comparison to the bleeding woman in front of him. Instinct took over as John broke from the crowd to stand next to Sherlock, taking the girl's pulse. It was slow. "Someone get me a blanket," he ordered over his shoulder. Her fingers were ice and small tremors ran up and down her body.

Sherlock shined the light in her eyes then opened her mouth and shined it down her throat.

"Where is this blood coming from?" John wondered out loud, trying to find a wound and failing.

"I have a theory," Sherlock said, his voice distant. "But I need to be sure. What is your name?" he asked the girl. She thought hard for a second.

Through trembling lips he muttered "Jenny. Jenny Tanner. What's happening?"

"Why did you scream, Jenny?" Sherlock asked.

She focused, still trying to remember as someone handed John the blanket. He put wrapped it around her. She snuggled into it gratefully.

"It _hurts_," she finally whimpered. "So much blood. It _hurts_ and it's _wrong._"

"What hurts?" John asked, but Sherlock cleared his throat, a satisfied smile spreading over his face.

"I would imagine quite a bit of her hurts. If you would only look for a second you would notice that most of the blood has soaked into her pajama trousers. Likely there are bruises on her thighs and on the inner walls of her-"

"Sherlock!" John cut him off quickly, realizing with a dawning sense of horror where this was going.

"She's been violently raped," Sherlock finally said. "Obvious. I'm amazed she's standing, she must be in absolute agony. The pain has likely been dulled by the GHB in her system."

There was a rush of movement as the crowd parted and Greg arrived with a mousy boy with brown hair and an unpleasant presence. John instantly disliked him. Sherlock scowled at the boy. The boy scowled back.

"Anderson," Sherlock finally muttered in greeting. He turned to Greg. "Get this girl to the infirmary quickly. She'll likely have to be carried. The more the drug wears off, the more pain she will be in. Once she's taken care of, get security. Not before, not after, do you understand?"

"You aren't in charge, Sherlock," Greg muttered, but he was nodding and doing what Sherlock ordered anyway. "Anderson, start asking questions. The more we can give security, the better."

With a surprising show of strength, Greg scooped Jenny up princess style and began carrying her towards the infirmary. Ian from Biology accompanied them, appearing once again out of nowhere. Something about that wasn't sitting right with John, but he couldn't place his finger on it.

"And what were you doing, Freak?" Anderson immediately rounded on Sherlock, standing on his tip toes to get in his face. Sherlock stared him down without changing his expression before giving a tragic sigh.

"Oh, Anderson," Sherlock implored, "Please stop speaking. You're desecrating the sanctity of a learning environment with your infectious stupidity."

Sherlock turned away and walked into Jenny's now empty room.

"Hey! Don't go in there," Anderson tried to follow him, but John caught the sleeve of his sleep shirt before he consciously registered his intention of performing the action.

"Hi, don't I need to give an alibi or something?" John stalled, knowing that there was likely a good reason that Sherlock needed to looking around the room.

"Can't you wait?" Anderson spit. John scowled.

"I thought you might want to know," John said, trying to come up with a lie quickly, "that I saw someone run out of the hallway just before everyone got here. Yeah, I was already out of my room because I had to…use the loo…so I heard the scream first. Someone else was here. He went that way." John pointed down the hall.

"Why didn't you say something?!" Anderson took off running in the direction John had indicated. John exhaled slowly, wondering belatedly if there would be consequences to what he just did.

He entered the room hesitantly, standing aside as Sherlock flitted from place to place, looking at everything with a small pocket magnifying glass.

"You got rid of Anderson," Sherlock commented. "Thank you. And it will keep the idiot brigade occupied with a false suspect for a while. I might even be able to set them on the proper path before they realize they're chasing shadows." Sherlock looked up and gave a brief smile. "If they realized you lied, you do know that you'll immediately become the suspect, correct?"

John felt like he swallowed a cannon ball. "Yeah, that seems about right," he muttered. "So what are you looking for?"

"Anything that doesn't belong," Sherlock muttered. "Jenny doesn't have a roommate, as you can see," John looked, noticing the bed bare of sheets and pillows for the first time. "So the rapist would have been able to break in and commit the crime without witness or interruption." Here Sherlock gestured to Jenny's bed, and John felt faintly sick. There was a pool of blood on the sheets. He noticed a few drops on the floor from when Jenny stumbled out of the room. "There is damage on the lock as well that indicates an amateur picked it."

"Jesus Christ," John muttered, biting back nausea. "Would she really have bled so much from, um…"

"Not from her hymen tearing, if that's what you're referring to," Sherlock muttered in his cold, detached voice. "This was likely a result of the force, and possible penetration from a foreign object. Some rapists prefer to-"

"I get it!" John interrupted. In all honesty, he was more disturbed by Sherlock's attitude than what Sherlock was saying. He seemed…excited. Thrilled. Giddy, even. "Just…jeez, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked profoundly irritated. "I don't subscribe to the belief that acknowledgement of some sort of sympathy for the victim is necessary, John. It keeps me from missing details. If it bothers you, feel free to get out."

It was a pointed dismissal, but John stood where he was stubbornly. Sherlock sighed and continued inspecting.

"Small scuff mark on the ground," he said, kneeling on the floor. Sherlock touched his fingers to it and sniffed. "From a shoe, not furniture. Leather, obviously. Good quality, most likely expensive shoes."

"So…from a businessman?" John suggested idiotically, trying to think of who wore expensive leather shoes.

Sherlock gave him a 'you really shouldn't try to think' look before dusting his hands off.

"Not necessarily. The shoes required for the school uniform are expensive. It could have been any student wearing the standard shoes," Sherlock held up his own foot as exhibit A. "Or anyone else with a pair of nice dress shoes. Doesn't narrow it down much." Sherlock took one last look around the room, frowning. "Nothing. Nothing I can use. Nothing about the rapist, at least, I've got plenty about the victim. Now, the rapist cleaned up after himself. He was meticulous. Assuming it was a man."

"Who else…" John started before he realized he probably didn't want to know the answer.

"A foreign object was used, John. Judging from the amount of blood it had a sharp corner or edge. Anyone could have done that to a person. We won't know until doctors examine her if she had been raped in the traditional way as well."

John shuddered, trying not to think about it. "Come on," he finally said. "I don't think that we want to get caught in here. Not after I sent that prick Anderson sprinting down the hallway."

Sherlock grinned, following John out of the room. "He looked ridiculous when he ran, didn't he?"

"Like a chicken with its head cut off," John agreed, giggling. Sherlock hesitated before joining.

"We shouldn't giggle at a crime scene," Sherlock finally pointed out. John laughed harder for a second before the full weight of the situation sobered him.

"God, her life is ruined, isn't it?" John commented, following Sherlock back up to their room. "I mean, I can't think of anything more horrible…"

"She could have been killed," Sherlock pointed out. "At least her life will continue. At she likely won't remember any of this when she wakes up in the morning."

"I don't think that makes it better."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock conceded. "But it's better than the alternative. The rapist drugged her because he had no intention to kill her. If he kept her conscious, he would have to kill her to ensure that he wouldn't get caught. It's strange, but he was merciful, in a way."

John didn't know what was worse: Sherlock's dark logic or the fact that John understood it.

"What are you going to do?" John asked as they entered their room. "I mean, the police will get involved and it isn't as though they will let you help."

Sherlock sighed. "I'm limited by my age," he admitted. "I'm not eighteen until January, and even then I will have a problem getting anyone to listen." Sherlock began pacing as John collapsed onto his bed. "If only I had access to more equipment! I could have run analysis on the scuff mark! Do you have any idea what I can learn from a scuff mark? The exact material of the shoe and everywhere the owner had been in at _least _the last twenty four hours! All I have are chemicals and a microscope. It's not enough."

Sherlock sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands. "I'll do what I can," he finally muttered, "to solve this case. And I _will _solve it."

"Alright, alright," John said. "I'll help where I can, but please don't do anything drastic by yourself."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't go," John struggled for an example, "chasing after the rapist by yourself. He's obviously dangerous. At least make sure I'm with you, if you refuse to involve security. Why did you make Lestrade wait, by the way?"

Sherlock snorted. "Really, John? I'm amazed you didn't figure it out. I just wanted to delay those idiots before they ruined all the evidence. A crime scene that's been even slightly manipulated is completely useless."

"I see."

"At the moment there are too many suspects," Sherlock muttered. His eyes were closed but John could see rapid movement under the lids. "There's little I can do to narrow it down. If the girl had died I would have been able to examine a corpse. As it is, I sincerely doubt she would allow me to give her a full examination. Hm."

Sherlock was silent for a minute. John watched warily, half expecting him to jump up and start running around the campus.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock finally ordered, glancing at John briefly. "There's a great deal of thinking to do before I can act. And you'll need to wake up in an hour or two anyway."

"Why?" John asked, glancing at the clock. It would be quite some time before school started.

"If you insist on coming with me," Sherlock snapped, "then you will have to do it on my own terms. We need to break into the infirmary and glance at the preliminary records of the victim's examination. Of course they wouldn't have done anything extensive, just enough to make some notes for the paramedics. The victim would have been taken to the hospital by now, most likely, so any other information will be out of our hands."

"And how do you intend on breaking into the infirmary?" John asked, half incredulous that it wasn't the idea itself that he was questioning, but exactly how they were going to do it.

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock said shortly. "She's the nurse's aide. I pinched a set of keys from her room this morning."

"Won't she notice?"

"Definitely," Sherlock said, waving the concern away. "But there's no chance that she'll tell."

John silently agreed that was probably true.

"You seem…happy," John pointed out, putting his finger on the subtle change in Sherlock's demeanor.

Sherlock smiled. "I am, in a way. The _game_, John," he said, with something close to lust in his voice. "The _game_ is afoot. I've been waiting for this." A look akin to insanity danced in Sherlock's silver eyes. "Sleep for now, John. I want you observant in the morning."

John obeyed, climbing back under his sheets and shutting his eyes, trying to forget the image of blood splattered sheets as he breathed deeply.

No matter how much he didn't want to admit it to himself, he was perversely excited by everything that had happened.

He was shocked by how well he slept.

...

"This is absolutely insane," John muttered, fidgeting as Sherlock unlocked the door. It was six o'clock in the morning, the nurse wouldn't be in for another hour, and John was beginning to question whether or not the decisions he had made in the last two days were rational.

"Stop worrying," Sherlock reprimanded, opening the door. "It's making your thinking louder than usual. I find it exceedingly annoying."

John gave up and followed Sherlock inside.

The nurse's office was blindingly white. White walls, white floors, white counters, white cot in the corner. Sherlock immediately headed for a filing cabinet, jimmied it open, and searched for the necessary file.

John examined the medicine cabinet curiously. He was interested in medicine and mentally catalogued any drugs he recognized. There was a label on the shelf for each bottle, which ruined some of the fun, but there didn't seem to be anything he could do to help, so he continued to quiz himself on each drug's usage.

"Sherlock," John said suddenly, earning a grunt of irritation. "Xyrem is missing."

Sherlock froze with the file in his hand. "What makes you say that?" he asked, rushing over to where John stood.

"The shelf is labeled where the bottles should be," John explained. "But Xyrem is missing. You know the drug-"

"With the same chemical compounds as Gamma- Hydroxybutyric acid. Used for treating narcolepsy. There is one narcoleptic student at this school, a second year who would have given the office some medication. Brilliant, John." Sherlock's mind seemed to be racing faster than the speed of sound. He tucked the file under his arm, shut the filing cabinet and gestured for John to follow him out of the office.

"You want to be a doctor," Sherlock stated suddenly.

"Yes," John answered, startled at the sudden direction of Sherlock's thoughts.

"That's how you knew about the drug. You want to be a doctor. John Watson, you may be more useful than I thought."

"Thank you…?"

"The boy's name is Anthony Blithe. He's too young to be in any of our classes, but I'll be able to look him up easily enough. We will be able to determine if he had anything to do with the murders. He would have a ready supply of Xyrem on hand, after all. Granted it isn't nearly as potent as concentrated GHB, but perhaps if he mixed it with alcohol…but when? When did the rape occur? Even concentrated GHB takes some time to kick in. We need to talk to the victim, find out what she remembers from the day before."

"Could someone else have stolen the medication?" John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock physically and mentally.

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding bored at the idea, although he did pull out his phone and tapped a few quick things in. "I thought so. Anyone who Googles the drug can easily see that sodium oxybate, or Xyrem, is a form of GHB. The internet has made crime so delightfully easy. Instructions for theft, rape, and murder, right there at your fingertips."

"So a trip to the nurse's office and they pinch the drug they need? That's it?" John was horrified with how easy the preparation for the crime had been.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. "Although most schools wouldn't have any sort of drug for narcoleptics in their medicine cabinet. Thus, Anthony Blithe. I can't think of anyone besides him, Molly, and the nurse herself that would even know that the drug was there."

"Except you," John said thoughtlessly, unaware until he had already uttered it that it sounded like an accusation.

"Oh, don't get fussy, John," Sherlock said, his voice heavy with scorn. "I've read the medical files of every student in this school. I have it all up here." He tapped his head with an index finger. "This sort of information is invaluable. You can see why, after all of this. I like to keep an index of potential suspects on hand at all times. While the student body is large, it is limited. This school is, essentially, a locked room. Locked room mysteries are my favorite. _Everyone _has something to hide."

"So you think it was a student, then?" John asked. "Not a faculty member, not some creep who broke into the school?"

"Possible, but unlikely. There are no new teachers this year, so why now? Why would a teacher who has been here for years suddenly decide to attack a student? As far as a prowler goes, the victim was one of the few students in this school without a roommate. A random 'creep,' as you so eloquently put it, would not have known that about the victim, and yet she was attacked in her room. This had to be someone who knew her, who knew that they wouldn't get caught if they assaulted her in her dorm. The rapist could have looked up the victim's room assignment in the front office, but that suggests a level of premeditation. If the crime was so premeditated, why steal the Xyrem? Why not buy GHB off the street? No, this was likely a crime of passion, of sorts. Perhaps an unstable student who was jilted by the victim and exacted revenge, of sorts."

"Jenny!" John finally interrupted, unable to contain his irritation anymore.

"Pardon?"

"Jenny, her name is Jenny. She isn't a faceless victim Sherlock, she's our classmate. She's in our biology class, for Christ's sake."

Sherlock was silent for a second. "You care," he finally said, as though the notion surprised and confused him. "You care about the victim—about Jenny."

"I do!" John exclaimed. "It's called sympathy, Sherlock. You could try it sometime."

"Tedious," Sherlock muttered, flipping open the file still in his hands. "And I believe we have discussed this already. Hm. It seems that there was bruising on her shoulders, hips, thighs…small lacerations on the insides of her thighs, but, as I anticipated, most of the blood came from a wound inside. The nurse didn't examine her thoroughly. Apparently the victim—argh, _Jenny_—started to become progressively more coherent and reacted violently when a proper examination was attempted. The ambulance arrived quickly. The nurse only had enough time to determine that there wasn't much she could do." Sherlock snapped the folder shut. "Well, that only confirms what I suspected, nothing new."

"A waste of time then?" John sighed.

"Not at all," Sherlock said with a small grin. "The bruising on her shoulders, hips, and thighs suggests that she was gripped tightly by both hands with the rape occurred, not something that could be managed with a foreign object in hand. Likely the rape occurred first, and then she was cut with the sharp object. It eliminates the potential that a female could have done this. While the possibility was statistically small, it existed. Now it no longer does, and the suspect pool has been cut in half. It certainly narrows things down a bit. Besides, you found the Xyrem, or, rather, the lack of it. That information alone could be invaluable. And it gives us a good place to start."

Sherlock looked over at John with a gleam of something wicked and wild in his eyes. "What do you say to having a nice chat with Anthony Blithe?"


	5. Chapter 5

(A/N: I'm sorry for the delay. My stupid real life kept me busy, but I'll try to update at least once a week from here on out. Oh, and I apologize if you think that the plot moves slowly, I don't have a lot of experience writing this kind of story and I'm being overcautious. I don't want to give away too much too quickly.)

"Class will be starting in two hours," John pointed out, glancing at the time on his phone. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Plenty of time," the young detective declared. "We'll drop the file back at our room, find out where Anthony Blithe is living, and speak to him briefly."

"You aren't going to accuse him of being a rapist in front of the entire school, are you?" John asked warily, stifling the urge to point of how very _not good _that idea was.

"Oh, of course not," Sherlock said, his mind obviously somewhere else. "I don't think he did it at all, actually. I just need to know everything he knows about his medication, and what he might have told other people. It's possible he's one of those obnoxious children who broadcast everything about his or her condition in an effort to obtain special treatment. If that's the case, then anyone he would have spoken to could know about Xyrem. Although, it wouldn't hurt to make him a bit anxious first. People are much more willing to speak when they're trying to prove their innocence."

"Hm."

They didn't say anything else as they went back to their dorm room. Sherlock dumped the file on his bed, not bothering to hide it.

"Don't you want to be…" John fumbled. "I don't know, more secure with that?"

"It will be fine, just as long as you don't invite people into our room. By the way, we should probably discuss boundaries for such things."

"I agree!" John said, excited that Sherlock was finally being receptive to what he had been trying to talk about for days. "I think-"

"Never let anyone into the room and we will be fine," Sherlock finished.

John wilted. He didn't bother arguing. He figured it would be best to keep any potential friends as far away from Sherlock as possible, anyway.

"Now," Sherlock said, sitting cross legged on his bed and opening up his laptop. "We just have to figure out what room Mr. Blithe is in."

"You can find out from there?" John asked in amazement, sadly aware that the only thing he could manage to do on a computer was send e-mails, watch videos, and Google the answers to his homework.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I hacked the school's security system last year, and they still haven't updated their software or changed any passwords. All the school files are here at my fingertips, provided they've been added to the data base." Sherlock glanced at the manila folder lying on his bed. "I searched for those records while you were sleeping. The nurse hadn't entered them in. I'm not as fond of hard copies, but I suppose that it will do for now. Here," he said, clicking open some files. "The housing for all the students in the school."

"Am I…bookmarked?" John asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "I was afraid admin was going to room you with me."

"Ah," John said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock paused, thinking. "Don't be," he finally decided. "All things considered, you could have been much worse. And you aren't as stupid as some of the other students."

"Thank…you?"

"You're welcome."

"Right."

"It looks like he's in Hall A," Sherlock muttered. "Second floor. Down the hall a ways. We'll be able to get there in plenty of time. In the meantime, I wanted to ask you something."

"About what?" What could Sherlock possibly hope to learn from John?

"You spoke to Jenny in Advanced Biology, yesterday morning," Sherlock said. "I want you to tell me what she was like. It's imperative that I get a feel for her personality. Crimes such as this can be set off by anything. The more I can narrow down the cause, the better."

"She was nice," John said. "Cute. Very friendly. Chatted with a lot of people. Didn't say much to me, really. Didn't even introduce herself. Just smiled and said hello."

"Hm," Sherlock said, shutting his laptop with a definitive click. "I assume that this would make her seem likable to most of her classmates?"

"Can't you tell?" John asked in irritation. Sherlock just stared at him. "Right, sorry," John muttered, moving to the other side of the room. Sherlock didn't do social interaction; John had somehow managed to forget that for a moment.

"I've never investigated a rape before," Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, lying down on the bed. John twitched, slightly surprised with the sudden shift in Sherlock's thought direction. "I must admit that this territory is unfamiliar. It can be a crime of twisted love and passion, a crime of possessive dominance, a crime of pure sadism, or some combination thereof. It's strange." Sherlock glanced at John, his eyes icy blue in the early morning light peeking through the windows. "Are you sure that you have the stomach for this? It could be dangerous."

John smiled, sitting on the edge of his bed. "I know, mate," he sighed, noticing that, for the first time in a long time, his leg wasn't bothering him at all. "Why do you think I'm here? Someone has to keep you from getting hurt."

…

Sherlock was very unhappy. Anthony had somehow managed to evade the two of them, forcing the young detective to wait until class was over before he could begin his questioning.

They cut their last period and waited around the corner from Anthony's class until the dismissal bell rang.

_Second day of school,_ John thought with a tiny grin, _and I'm already cutting class._

Sherlock was excited. He was bouncing up and down on his toes impatiently, watching the clock with the intensity of a cat tracking a mouse.

_Poor kid. _

The bell rang, and Sherlock pushed through the crowd of students that poured through the suddenly opened doors. John tried to follow, trying to pretend he couldn't hear what all the students were gossiping about. It was what everyone had been saying all day.

"Did you hear about that senior girl?"

"Oh my God, how did you go to class all day and not hear about this?"

"I heard she got raped."

"I heard she was found half dead, bleeding in the hallways."

"I heard the Freak was there."

John was beginning to hate other people.

"You!" Sherlock suddenly declared, grabbing a pathetically small boy by the arm and dragging him to the side. Sherlock was comically taller than the little fifteen year old who was staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"Hi," John said calmly. The boy, Anthony, did not look reassured. John was short, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and strong arms. He was likely as imposing as Sherlock was.

"W-what is it?" Anthony asked. His eyes were a watery blue and his hair was an untamed bush of thick brown hair, the combination, along with his size, making him look even younger than he was.

"Don't be alarmed," Sherlock said, looking slightly entertained by the boy's terror. "We just need to ask you a few questions. I assume that you've heard about the unfortunate Jennifer Tanner, correct?"

Anthony nodded, still terrified.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Now, can you answer this for me? Why was it that the unfortunate Jennifer Tanner was dosed with Xyrem?"

Anthony's eyes went impossibly wider.

"She was?" he asked, his breathing very rapid. "I d-didn't know that. I s-swear that I had nothing to do with it."

"Don't lie," Sherlock said harshly, his entire demeanor instantly changing. He got very close into Anthony's personal space, making the boy back against the wall. Students passing in the hallway slowed and observed, making sure that they weren't about to miss something interesting.

"I'm n-not!" Anthony pleaded, looking utterly terrified. John was beginning to think that it might be best if he stepped in.

"Sherlock," he said, the pitch of his voice indicating a warning. Sherlock didn't pay him any attention.

"If not you, then who? Who knew about your prescription? Did you mention it carelessly, or did you intentionally lead the culprit right to the drug he used? Perhaps you handed him the bottle, you sick, worthless excuse for a human being!"

"I swear I didn't!" Anthony cried, his eyes going bright with tears. "I d-didn't tell anyone! Only my teachers knew why I had it! Please let me go!"

Sherlock backed up immediately, the shift in his behavior nearly tangible. "Oh, calm down. Of course you had nothing to do with it. I honestly doubt you were strong enough to leave a bruise on her. I just needed an honest answer. People are much less likely to protect their friends when they believe their own fate is on the line. Stop hyperventilating, you're making a fool of yourself. Go to the nurse, she'll help you with the panic attack. Yes, go on."

Poor Anthony Blithe ran away.

"I think…" John said after a moment, his tone a firm rebuke, "that you may have scarred that child for life."

"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock said, turning away sharply and starting down the hallway, ignoring the wide eyes stares of the shocked bystanders still frozen in place. "He is nearly sixteen years old, I'm sure he'll get over this in a couple months at the most. Besides, the information he gave us was invaluable, provided that Jenny really had been drugged with the Xyrem."

"Because only his teachers knew about it?" John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock both physically and mentally.

"Precisely, John," Sherlock said, sounding pleased. "Of course, any student who looked into the medicine cabinet and Googled a couple drug names could have seen the potential, but someone with prior knowledge of its existence is much likelier, considering the seemingly spontaneous nature of the crime. I'll look up his records, see every teacher he's had, and try to make whatever connections I can."

"If they have a teacher in common-"

"Prime suspect," Sherlock confirmed. "Although why now, I can't begin to fathom. Predators can be remarkably subtle, blending in with everyone else, but I can't see why this would be the first victim. Every teacher we've had has been here for years. However, there doesn't seem to be any other option, no matter how illogical this solution appears. No, a teacher seems to be the most likely culprit. Of course, we'll need to check alibis and confirm that it was possible, but I believe once we make the connection, the case will be nearly closed." Sherlock frowned at the thought. "Shame, really. I was hoping that this would have been more complicated."

"Maybe next time," John said, shocked that, after a moment's thought, he realized that he sincerely hoped that there would be a next time.

They paused when the entered their dorm hall. Police tape decorated the front of Jenny's room, and officers milled, around, questioning anyone who came within proximity. They had definitely not been there that morning.

"Oh Lord," Sherlock muttered, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders a bit. "It's Detective Inspector Grayson. Just my luck."

John assumed that Sherlock was referring to the portly man with a rather impressive mustache who was ordering the other officers around.

"Don't get on, then?" John asked with a tiny laugh.

"John, by now if you haven't realized how completely unnecessary that question is, I'm afraid that you are much less observant than I have given you credit for. I don't get on with anyone, not really." Sherlock's eyes turned a stormy color. "But you are correct. Grayson and I have a particularly messy history."

"Meaning?" John asked, following Sherlock who had suddenly decided to duck into the crowd of curious students.

"Meaning," Sherlock started with an exasperated sigh, "that he is largely the reason why I have such problems getting work from the police. Ridiculous that he would hold a grudge over something so petty. All I did was offer him some constructive criticism."

John sighed. He had a feeling that constructive criticism from Sherlock would be more than enough fuel for a grudge.

"You made him look like an idiot, didn't you?" John asked.

"Maybe."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock ducked down even lower as they passed the Detective Inspector.

"And what the hell are you doing here, Holmes?" Grayson had a deep baritone voice that rivaled Sherlock's. Both John and Sherlock froze for a moment, but Sherlock recovered quickly and turned very reluctantly towards the officer.

"I go to school here," Sherlock replied arrogantly. He popped the lapels of the uniform's blue blazer as proof. "I am merely going to my dorm room."

Grayson approached Sherlock with an over the top swagger. The students parted, creating a path that led directly to Sherlock and John.

John shifted uncomfortably, his leg suddenly bothering him again.

Grayson was not a very tall man, he had perhaps an inch on John, and the size of his stomach betrayed that a few too many doughnuts were consumed on the job. His hair was a salt and pepper grey, and his mustache somehow managed to obscure half of his face, leaving only beady dark eyes peering over the bush of facial fur.

"I'm warning you right now, Holmes," Grayson said, undaunted by Sherlock's advantage in height. "If you interfere with this case, you will regret it."

"If I interfere with this case, I will solve it," Sherlock replied, sounded bored with the conversation. John, however, noticed that was not the case. Sherlock's hands were tightened into fists and the muscles in his back were rigid.

"A girl has been seriously hurt," Grayson continued. "You could easily cross the line here, Holmes. You better watch yourself before you make things worse. Besides," Grayson said, stepping back. "You have the makings of a prime suspect. Your past is muddier than anyone else's in this school. If I find out that you did something…"

"_Please, _Inspector," Sherlock said in a tone that John was beginning to recognize. It was the tone that usually came along when Sherlock was emotionally and mentally shutting himself away. "This was obviously a crime of passion and opportunity, not something coldly calculated. You'd want someone with a nasty temper, not a sociopath, and I'm afraid I don't fit any other profile."

Sherlock straightened his jacket. "I can assure you that I will do nothing to harm the case," Sherlock said, sounding genuine. "I want the rapist in prison as much as you do. Just because I don't care so much about the victim, I certainly care about taking down the culprit. The only interference you will see from me will only serve to assist you. Speaking of which," Sherlock said, turning away, "run plenty of blood tests on her, look specifically for Xyrem. I'm fairly certain that was the drug used in the attack, but a test to confirm it will be nice. And be careful, it will likely show up as GHB, but there are some very subtle differences, so be sure to get an expert on it. I'd offer my own expertise, but I know how you will answer that question. Now, if you don't mind, I have plenty to do. Come along, John," Sherlock ordered, starting down the hallway.

John shrugged at the Inspector and followed. Grayson let them without argument, but watched the pair of them until they climbed the stairs and disappeared.

"Bad luck," Sherlock muttered. "Any other officer would likely see my assistance as nothing more than a precocious child's attempt at receiving attention and praise. They would leave me alone provided I didn't step on their toes. Grayson on the other hand, he's waiting for me to slip up. He would love to see me in prison and out of his way."

"For a seventeen year old," John muttered, "you seem to have a lot of enemies."

"Downside of brilliance, John," Sherlock sighed. "People who don't have it either revere it or abhor it."

They went back to their room and began working separately, John on his homework and Sherlock clicking and clacking away on his computer, when a knock sounded on the door. John sighed for the umpteenth time, wondering if there would ever be a moment to just sit and do normal things, or if this was just going to be the current state of his life.

Sherlock didn't even look up from laptop, so John was left to answer it.

John opened the door and found Mike looking uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot as he stood there.

"Hey, Mike," John greeted him. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Hudson would like to speak with you two," he said, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. "Something about scaring an underclassman…"

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sherlock exclaimed from within the room, snapping his laptop shut violently. "He _tattled _on us? We didn't even scare him thatbadly!"

"She sent me to tell you that," Mike finished, scooting away as though he was trying to be inconspicuous. "I'll just be going now. I've got a lot of errands to run and all that. Have a great day."

Mike was gone.

"Well," John sighed, stepping out and leaving the door open. "Are you coming, Sherlock?"

"Not much of a choice, is there?" Sherlock muttered, getting off the bed. "I owe Mrs. Hudson a couple of favors. I don't really have the option of ignoring her summons."

"What happened?" John asked, belatedly realizing that he likely wasn't going to get the story. To his surprise, Sherlock answered.

"The school tried to kick me out as soon as I enrolled. She's stood up for me numerous times and prevented my expulsion on more than one occasion. In return, I do what I can for her. Although it frequently means that I have to endure counseling sessions, not something that I particularly enjoy."

John locked the door and they hurried to her office. Sherlock knew its location unerringly, and John, as always, blindly followed.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Sit," she commanded, gesturing to the single chair. Sherlock claimed it without hesitation, leaving John to stand awkwardly next to him. "Sherlock, dear, you need to stop scaring your classmates."

"I was asking him about the case," Sherlock replied, sounding profoundly uninterested. "A girl has been attacked, Mrs. Hudson. I am trying to prevent it from happening again."

"Now, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said in a no-nonsense tone. "I understand you needed to speak with him, but you know as well as I do that there is no need to make others feel inferior to you." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Mrs. Hudson didn't let him. "None of that now! Promise me you won't be cruel to poor Mr. Blithe anymore."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible that Mrs. Hudson took for assent.

"I mean this, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes flashing steel again. "And not just Anthony. With everything going on right now, it would be best if you stayed under everyone's radar. We don't want someone accusing you of anything you didn't do again."

"Fine," Sherlock finally groaned.

"And you, John," Mrs. Hudson said, relaxing. "I want you to make sure that Sherlock keeps his word."

"Yes ma'am," John promised.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. She passed each of them a cup of tea. John accepted it gratefully, inhaling the fragrant scent for a moment before taking a sip. An overly sweet after taste made him wrinkle his nose. Sugar. Ugh. He never took sugar in his tea. He feigned a noise of appreciation and set it aside.

"That's a good dear," she said. "I would like to talk to you about the case as well, love. I want to be sure that you aren't putting yourself in any danger."

"Unlikely," Sherlock answered after a sip of tea. "The crime was spur of the moment. I don't believe that the suspect will display chronic tendencies towards violence. Any aggression that will be directed towards me would be raw and unpracticed. That sort of rage is easy to redirect. Besides, I _am _stronger than I appear Mrs. Hudson. I'm not who I was a year ago." He gave Mrs. Hudson a tiny smile. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson said, her hands fluttering over the tea tray, straightening things unnecessarily. "You know how I worry, dear. Just don't do anything rash. And don't you _dare _confront the man."

"It's going to be fine," Sherlock assured her, real warmth in his voice. He stood up and set his empty cup of tea on the tray. "John already insists that he won't let me do anything stupid alone."

Mrs. Hudson looked at John with approval. "Good boy," she declared. "I'm not going to forbid either of you from getting involved, heaven knows you wouldn't listen, but I am going to forbid either of you from leaving the other alone in a dangerous situation."

"Very good," Sherlock said, straightening his jacket. "Oh, and in the future Mrs. Hudson, John doesn't take sugar in his tea. If you'll excuse me, there's still quite a few things I need to do," Sherlock said, opening the door and heading out.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "You're not to leave school grounds without permission," she added.

"Plenty to see on campus," Sherlock assured her. They left the office, Sherlock rushing back to their dorm.

"Now," Sherlock turned to John, the mad glint back in his eye. "We have a few leads to follow up on. I believe that I will need to look at Jenny's hospital records, and question her myself if I can."

"She will probably be out of the hospital in a few days, if that much," John said thoughtfully. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"And I've been skimming through Anthony's records. I haven't gotten to all the teachers, but I'm sure something is going to come up. Oh, it's a simple game, but it's the first one I've played in weeks. God, I've needed this. I do _love _a good crime."


	6. Chapter 6

(A/N: I am so sorry. This is incredibly late. For some reason this chapter just didn't want to be written. And it's really long. In retrospect, I probably should have split it up. Oh well.)

"Damn it," Sherlock muttered, shutting his laptop. "I can't find a single teacher between the two of them." He frowned, picking at his bed coverings with his fingers. "There must be some other connection. Teachers gossip, that's a fact. Perhaps more people know about Anthony's condition than he realizes."

"It could still be a student," John pointed out, finding that he was favoring the explanation more than the thought of a teacher sadistically attacking a student. "He could have, I don't know, looked up a bit of information on GHB and did a quick raid of the school's medicine cabinet."

"The lock wasn't tampered with," Sherlock muttered. "No one broke in. They either would have had to have a set of keys or the nurse would have had to have been there. Argh, this isn't making sense!"

"Why don't we start from square one," John suggested, trying to mollify his roommate. "Get the Xyrem and the teachers out of your mind and try to figure out who did it the good old fashioned way, yeah? We can…I don't know, interrogate people or something like that."

"You really have absolutely no idea what you're doing, do you?" Sherlock moaned, his head in his hands.

"Not the faintest clue."

"I let the facts speak for themselves, John," Sherlock explained, pulling at his inky black curls. "I don't usually bother with people for anything more than tying up loose ends. In a good case, I don't need to bother with people at all. I can deduce a hundred things about a person from the contents of their coat pockets, but interrogation? Unreliable. People are tricky. They think they're telling the truth, but facts get muddled in those teeny tiny brains of theirs."

"Speaking on behalf of people…" John muttered dryly. "Thanks. Really appreciate the confidence."

"Don't fuss," Sherlock scolded. "You have it easy. At least your mind never manages to scratch itself raw."

"Just focus on what you do know," John sighed, refocusing the subject. "Figure out as much as you can about Jenny. Walk me through her room. What did you see that I missed?"

Sherlock sighed and lied down on his back, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his chest. "She's an athlete," Sherlock muttered. "There were two gym bags and equipment for three separate sports gathered around the room. A football was in the closet, she wouldn't be playing that until spring anyway, as was a school issued bathing suit. She's on the swim team, but again, not in season. There was another bag, a backpack with a stick attached."

"A stick?"

"A club, of some sort. I'm not as familiar with sports as you are, most likely. It was a narrow stick with a sort of…curved head. Like a scythe, but extremely stunted and rounded off."

"A hockey stick, then?" John asked.

"Yes! Wait, no." Sherlock frowned. "Shaped like a hockey stick, but again, smaller, rounder."

"Uh…

"

"Come on, John. It's a girl's sport that involves a mini skirt in the uniform."

"Oh, field hockey," John remembered. "Not the most mainstream of sports, is it? I didn't think the school had a team."

"We don't," Sherlock muttered. "She must play in a community team. That bag was in the corner and splattered with mud. The mud was caked on, but not completely dry. There was a light rain yesterday afternoon, so some time after that she must have done something with her team, practice, a game, something like that."

John took out a spiral notebook and started jotting this down. "Alright," he said, "what else?"

"There were materials scattered all over her desk," Sherlock continued. "School supplies, the standard stuff. Notebooks, pencils, pens, paper, a compass..."

"Just rulers and such, then?"

Sherlock paused. "No," he said at last. "No ruler. Almost every item a student could conceivably need, but no ruler? Why wouldn't she have a straightedge? Is that strange? Is this important?"

"It might be," John replied, honestly having no clue.

"Her dirty clothes were scattered on the floor," Sherlock muttered, ignoring the ruler after all, "but only the clothes she was wearing yesterday. Anything else was in a hamper. Makes sense. She was probably drugged when she got to her room. Assuming that it the drug had begun to poison her system as she staggered in, she would have clumsily changed into her pajamas. Hm, but someone who was fully under the effects would have collapsed in bed fully clothed. She could not have been drugged more than fifteen minutes before if she was in that sort of in-between state. What would that put the time at? The drug was probably in her system for three to four hours by the time she woke up and screamed. That would put the time between ten and eleven o'clock. Curfew is midnight, so any number of students may have seen her stagger in."

"Is that it?" John asked, preparing to shut the notebook.

"Maybe," Sherlock muttered. "There were light scratches of the wood floor. It could have come from absolutely anything, but they _were _fresh. Perhaps they warranted closer examination than I gave them."

"We could try to sneak back in…" John suggested before remembering the unhappy officer looking for a reason to humiliate Sherlock. "Ah, never mind."

Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. "D.I. Grey would never allow such a thing. I think we're stuck with the information that we have."

"Why don't I talk to a few people?" John suggested after a moment. "I'll let you know what I come up with and we can see if anything can be pieced together, yeah?" "Acceptable," he muttered, steeple-ing his fingers under his chin. "It would be best if you left for a bit anyway, I need to get to my mind palace, and your presence would detract from that."

"You mind palace?" John asked, amazed that there was yet another undiscovered oddity about his roommate.

"It's a sort of place in my mind where I store memory. I can't expect you to fully understand unless you've had one yourself, and quite honestly I am not sure your mind can take it. So shoo. If you're going to start speaking to people, now would be the time, it's nearly supper."

"I want you to eat something today," John added as he prepared to leave the room. "I get you're working on a case, but it's been three days at least."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before John decided that now was not the time to have an argument and left the room instead. He promised himself he would be sure to sneak something out of the dining hall later and shove it down Sherlock's throat, if necessary.

He tried to make a mental list of people talk to before he remembered that he was new here and wouldn't know a single person.

"John!" a familiar voice called. He turned around and greeted Molly, whose arms were, yet again, laden with the heavy burden of books.

"Hello," he greeted her politely. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I just wanted to ask you if Sherlock would be working this case." She shifted her weight around. "I mean, I'd love to help, if I can."

"Yeah, he's working it," John replied. "I mean, he doesn't seem to be all that receptive of assistance, but I'm sure anything would be useful at this point." An idea dawned on John. Suddenly, Molly's appearance seemed nothing short of miraculous. "Oh! Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I could actually use your help."

"I'll do what I can," she said with a smile.

"I need to talk to some of the people who knew Jenny. We're trying to figure out what she was doing that day, who she talked to, stuff like that."

"Oh," Molly said, understanding immediately. "And you don't know a single person. You'd think that Sherlock would have done this himself. Well, I guess not, actually, come to think of it. He doesn't exactly like people."

"Yeah, I'm figuring that one out," John muttered. "So, what do you say? Partners in crime for a day?"

"Love to. Anything to help Sherlock," Molly said fervently. "I guess we should start with Izzy Sinclair, Jenny's best friend."

"Sounds like a good place to start," John said. "Lead the way. Which hall is she in?"

"Hall C," Molly said, guiding John down the corridor. "Other end of the school. At least we'll pass Hall A and I can set these books down."

John glanced at the stack a little more carefully, curious as to what Molly had been bringing, he assumed, to Sherlock.

"What are you reading, exactly?" he asked, trying and failing to subtly discern titles.

"Anatomy books," Molly said, glancing at the stack. "I was just studying a bit."

"That's...some pretty ambitious reading," John commented, noticing that each volume was immensely thick. "Is it for class, or…?"

"It's just fascinating to me," she said, blushing. "I'd like to work in that field someday, as a doctor or something like that."

"Ah, you and me both, then," John said with a grin. "I could never get my mates at my old schools to understand why I was reading textbooks of about surgery and medicine for fun."

"The fate of a misfit, I suppose," Molly said, something very sad flashing through her eyes. John didn't push it, wondering if, like him and Sherlock, Molly wasn't the best at making friends.

But misfit? John certainly would not have given himself that label unprompted but thinking about it, he supposed that it was true. He jumped from school to school, never carving out a niche, never finding a place where he could confidently feel he belonged. He guessed that was why he was fascinated with Sherlock. Sherlock belonged nowhere, yet walked into a room with every appearance of confidence. He _owned _the fact that he didn't belong, and he seemed to revel in it.

It was strange; a foreign way of living that John attempted to reconcile with. He wondered, fleetingly, if he could grow comfortable walking at S

herlock's side.

John and, apparently, Molly were both lost in thought until they arrived at her dorm, where she dropped off her books quickly and rejoined John in the corridor.

"I haven't even been anywhere near Dorm Hall C," John commented, wondering where the school managed to hide all of these extra rooms and wings.

"Sure you have," Molly said. "It's by the science wing. You pass it on your way to biology. Most of the students there hate it because it's right next to the greenhouse. They swear that it's given them a pest problem."

"There's a greenhouse too?" John was completely baffled at this point. "How did I not see any of this? How come I haven't even heard about the greenhouse?"

"Well, we don't really use the greenhouse," she explained. "The door's been stuck since I was in my first year. The bugs seem to find a way in, but unless we break the door down, which the school won't allow, it's useless."

"Well, I've been to my fair share of schools, and I have yet to see an administration that fixes anything. I remember this one time; I went to school whose ceiling had been badly damaged before I even got there. Pieces of the plaster kept falling down and hitting students on the head. I was there eight months and they never bothered to fix it."

They chatted until they arrived at Dorm Hall C. John was surprised by how much he was beginning to like the company of Molly Hooper.

"She's just here," Molly said, indicating to a door that was decorated with several stickers displaying the names 'Izzy' and 'Lily' for everyone to see.

John hesitated before he knocked on the door. He realized belatedly that he had no idea what he would say to these girls. He didn't even know which one Izzy was.

John steeled himself and knocked, trying to remember that he was generally good with people.

After a moment the door opened. A beautiful blonde girl just a few pounds passed curvy opened up the door and looked John up and down speculatively.

"Have we met?" she asked, a strange combination of interest and confusion crossing her face.

"Ah, no," he started awkwardly before Molly saved him.

"Hi, Izzy," she said, smiling brightly. "This is John. He's new this year-"

"John Watson," Izzy said, her expression softening. "Yeah, I've heard about you. You were one of the guys that found Jenny. I heard that you were the first one to try to help her. Thanks."

John flushed. "Oh, erm, well-"

"He's the Freak's new roommate," a separate voice inside of the room called out. A tall, athletic girl with ebony brown hair made an appearance. "He probably just wants to ask a bunch of questions about Jenny."

"Hi, Lily," Molly said, shrinking back a bit.

"And the Freak's pet is here," she muttered, looking Molly up and down with contempt. John took a step in front of Molly, feeling the need to shield the much smaller girl.

"It's fine, Lily," Izzy said, looking slightly exasperated at her roommate's attitude. "If it will help them find out what happened to Jenny, I don't mind answering a couple of questions. Sherlock got me off the vandalism charge last year, remember? He kept me from being suspended."

John decided that he really liked Izzy.

"If you ask me," Lily said, biting her lip. "I think that the Freak probably had something to do with it."

"Hey," John interjected. "There's no need for any finger pointing. We just want to figure out who hurt Jenny. I have to admit that you called me out, I do want to ask Izzy a few questions, but if you're just going to accuse someone who is doing his best to help, I'm sure I can get information somewhere else."

"I'll happily answer questions," Izzy said, stepping fully into the hallway. "Let's go get dinner. We'll talk while we eat."

John thanked her, shot Lily one last glare, and walked down the corridor with Izzy and Molly at either side.

"What's it like?" Izzy asked. "Living with Sherlock?"

"I can't really say yet," John answered honestly. "I don't think that two days is enough time to really make a decision. It's interesting, so far."

"You stand up for him very quickly," Izzy pointed out.

"I noticed that too," Molly agreed. "Usually people are more willing to doubt him than defend him."

John flushed. "I'm just doing what any decent person would do."

"People can't really _be _decent around Sherlock," Molly disagreed. "You're either fighting for intellectual footing or cowering in his presence. Either way, it makes people defensive, sometimes violent. I was terrified of Sherlock for months before he asked for my help in an experiment."

"And what's your story?" John asked Izzy.

She shrugged. "Like I said, he kept me from getting suspended. Someone completely trashed the science labs last year. Somehow my name came up, and before I knew it the officials had decided that I was guilty. I still have no idea why that made sense. Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock showed up and said that he would help me. He proved that it couldn't have been me, although we never did find out who trashed the labs."

"So, what?" John started with a laugh. "Is there just a subculture of people that stand by Sherlock when everyone else seems to hate him?"

"Actually the most accurate description I've heard," Izzy said with a smile. "Sherlock does everything he can to keep people away from him, but he also does everything he can to help a stranger. He's funny that way."

…

"I love Jenny, don't get me wrong," Izzy started as they sat down with their meals, "but she wasn't perfect."

Something dark flitted across Izzy's expression so quickly that John was sure he must have imagined it, until his eyes met Molly's. The expression there confirmed that she had seen it too.

"Meaning?" John said, toying with his food.

"She was a flirt," Izzy sighed. "And a tease. She collected guys the same way children collect trading cards: whichever one she didn't have, she wanted."

"What did she do once she had them?" John asked around his food.

"Nothing, really," Izzy said. "Just strung them along. She went out on dates occasionally, but she never committed. She never really saw relationships as something serious, hers or others."

There. The flash of something dark again.

"What happened?" Molly asked shyly.

"I had a boyfriend last year," Izzy said after a small hesitation. "She decided that he was another collectable and pulled him into her chain of men. She didn't think anything of it. She wasn't dating him behind my back or anything; she was just flirting with him. I was so used to how she acted that I didn't notice what was happening until my boyfriend dumped me for her. Imagine how pissed he was when he found out that she wasn't actually into him."

John's heartbeat quickened slightly. This could definitely be something. "What was his name?" he asked.

"Ian Richmond," she said. She froze when she caught the look on John's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John answered hurriedly. "I'm sure it's nothing."

…

"'Hell hath no fury,'" John announced as he opened the door of his room. Sherlock, who was lying on his bed, twitched as John spoke and opened his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Ian Richmond," John clarified. "Last year he broke up with his girlfriend to date Jenny, but she shot him down. If you recall-"

"He was there when she was attacked, of course I recall," Sherlock interrupted, sitting up. "Right on the scene. And he accompanied her to the nurse. Strange, I had noticed, of course, but didn't think it was important. I should have realized it implied a relationship. Or lack thereof."

Something else occurred to John. "Didn't you say yesterday that Ian was cheating on his girlfriend?"

"Yes, it was obvious," Sherlock said. "He had two different shades of lipstick smudged in the collar of his shirt in first period. Eight in the morning is a little early to be 'playing the field' as I believe the colloquial term is, so he likely has an established romantic relationship with more than one woman. Although whether he is 'two-timing' them both or cheating on one exclusive partner I'm not sure. I simply made a conjecture yesterday morning, its accuracy has yet to be determined."

"Want to find out if you were right?"

"Always."

…

"You didn't need to make me eat first," Sherlock fussed as they snooped down the hallway. "You've delayed us much longer than you needed to."

"It wouldn't have taken so long," John said through gritted teeth, "if you had just eaten what you were supposed to."

"It was hardly necessary," Sherlock insisted.

"Sherlock, I had to _literally _force bread into your mouth. You need to reconsider your dietary habits. Or, if you won't be bothered to get yourself food, let me feed you, at least."

"It's not that I can't be bothered," Sherlock explained for the eighth time. "It's that digestion diverts blood flow from my head to my stomach, discouraging mental stimulation-"

John was still not having it. "Nope, still not listening."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and fixed his eerie sliver gaze onto John. "You are surprisingly infuriating for such a tiny, little person."

"I hate you."

It was slightly too late for John and Sherlock to be wandering the halls without looking suspicious. Lights out wasn't for another two and a half hours, but the day had started coming to a close. Most students were heading back to their dorms or studying in the library. The occasional rare soul passed Sherlock and John in the halls, but they were otherwise alone.

"It's not my fault that Ian wasn't in his room," John said after another moment. Ian's absence was another reason for their delay. They had spent the last half an hour searching for him.

"Perhaps it's better this way," Sherlock mused aloud. "After the ordeal with Anthony Blithe, it's probably best that there isn't any other audience for our interrogations."

"But why is he in the Biology hall?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. "But his roommate was adamant on his location. Perhaps he and Mr. Z are discussing the day's lesson."

"Maybe." Something about Ian made John's skin crawl. He was just hoping that they could figure him out quickly and move on. "Do you think he did it?"

"Perhaps, but I can't say for sure," Sherlock said honestly. "I don't have enough to go on yet."

As they approached the science hallway John became aware of a rhythmic banging sound.

"What is that?" John asked, but Sherlock was already running, searching for the source. John sighed and took off after his roommate.

They skidded to a stop in front of Mr. Z's room, where Ian was methodically smacking his fist against the door. They watched him for a moment before Sherlock spoke.

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Sherlock asked in genuine confusion.

Ian jumped, apparently aware for the first time that he wasn't alone.

"It's nothing," Ian said, folding his arms over his chest. "I was just looking for Mr. Z."

"It's late," John pointed out. "He's gone home."

"Thank you, John, for pointing out the obvious," Sherlock muttered drily. "Ian's lying. Why are you really here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Ian asserted defensively.

"We are looking for you," Sherlock answered flatly. He smiled, but his expression was as far away from friendly as it could possibly be, "Now then, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, and you are going to answer then quickly and truthfully or else I am going to get very frustrated." Sherlock took a step forward, looming over Ian as he invaded his personal space. "John is new and hasn't heard about all the things I did last year when I was frustrated, but I'm sure that you remember quite vividly what I am capable of."

Ian visibly paled. John wasn't paying attention to that so much as he was wondering what the hell Sherlock had done last year.

"You won't hurt me," Ian muttered, still brazen. Sherlock's face adopted a disturbingly apathetic expression as he grabbed Ian's shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

"Yes, I will," Sherlock said calmly.

John flinched in surprise, the abrupt action setting him on edge. Ian was grimacing in pain as he struggled ineffectually against Sherlock's grip. Sherlock, obviously much stronger than he appeared, merely responded by lifting Ian a few inches off the floor.

"I'm just going to ask a couple of questions," Sherlock repeated in a, frankly, disturbing monotone. "Then we'll figure out how to proceed, depending on whether or not you are honest, of course."

"Get the hell off!" Ian spit.

Sherlock tutted. "Bad start. I hope that you participate better from this point forward. Now, shall we begin?"

John had to admit that he was scared by Sherlock's behavior. It was far from human, and did more to confirm than deny Sally's claim that he was a psychopath. He was doing everything that he could to equate the mercenary-like behavior with the eccentric but mostly harmless person he had slowly begun to grow comfortable with.

"First," Sherlock said, giving another empty smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "You have a girlfriend? Correct?"

"Yes," Ian gasped. His breath was coming harder now, more desperate as his collar dug into his throat.

"Sherlock," John said, finding his voice. "Loosen up a little. He'll pass out."

Sherlock flicked John a glare, but did as he was told. Ian took in a deep breath and stopped struggling so hard.

"And you're cheating on her," Sherlock continued.

Ian froze, looking up at Sherlock with terrified eyes. "How did you-?"

"So forgive me for treating you harshly, but a serial cheater isn't exactly the most trustworthy of human beings. You are used to taking what you want without regard for moral consequences. Jenny spurned you. It isn't exactly a stretch to assume that you might have just," Sherlock raised his eyebrows and enunciated every word carefully, "taken what you wanted?"

"Of course not," Ian insisted, struggling again.

"But you did try to sleep with Jenny," Sherlock prompted with a grin that looked faintly lethal. He reminded John of a wolf that had just cornered his prey.

Ian looked down, the action a passive confession in itself. "I wasn't the only one," he admitted, sounding ashamed. "Jenny liked the flirt around. And I didn't just want to just-" Ian took a deep breath. "I wanted a relationship with her, but she just wanted to tease. I was stupid enough to think that it meant something else." His eyes were wide, pleading. "I really do like her. A lot. I'd _never _hurt her."

"Was there anyone who might have?" Sherlock asked. His expression had softened considerably as he absorbed the apparent truth in Ian's voice, but he didn't put the boy down.

"Mr. Z," Ian said with a hard edge to his voice.

John blinked in surprise and felt his pulse quicken in reaction. Were he a cat, his hackles would have been raised. A surprisingly visceral reaction had been provoked at the thought of one his teachers, one he particularly liked, in fact, abusing a student. He wanted to grab Sherlock by the collar, drag them away from Z's classroom and bring him to the safety of their dorm.

"Well, that explains you presence here, but what makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, pushing Ian against the wall tighter.

Ian gasped in pain. "A guess," he admitted. "But a good one, I think. She told me that she was seeing an older man, and I caught her hanging all over Z after school. Point A to point B, it's not all that complicated."

"I suppose not," Sherlock admitted, a storm brewing behind his pale eyes.

The sound of frantic steps down the hallway pulled Sherlock away from Ian faster than if the boy had suddenly turned into a giant spider. Ian fell back to the ground with a relieved and slightly pained grunt.

Sherlock brushed the shoulders of Ian's blazer, quickly smoothing any wrinkles.

A security guard turned the corner, clipping a walkie-talkie to his belt as he came into view. He spotted them in the otherwise empty hallway instantly.

"What the hell are you boys doing here?" He demanded.

They didn't answer immediately. In the moment of silence the guard's face adopted a resigned expression.

"Yeah…you're going to have to come with me," the guard said, shifting from foot to foot. "Unless you have a valid reason for being here, I think you're going to need to see the headmaster."

"What's wrong?" John asked, picking up on the faint note of hysteria in the man's voice. He seemed young, inexperienced. He likely was a student himself only a few years ago.

"Curfew isn't for a while yet," Sherlock muttered. "And lights out is not for hours." He looked up, his eyes a golden green in the muted light. "Something has happened. What? When?"

"No questions," the guard insisted. "You're coming with me now, no arguments."

"But we have a valid reason: Ian forgot his homework in Mr. Z's room." Sherlock lied so smoothly that it sent a shiver down John's spine. He has never seen someone so absolutely apathetic about a lie before. "We were hoping, irrationally, I must admit, that Z was still here, or that the room was otherwise unlocked."

"Yeah," Ian agreed, looking at his feet and rather spoiling the overall effectiveness of the lie. The guard, fortunately, seemed distracted.

"Fine," he sighed. "Not like you could have done it anyway, you're on the other side of the school. I'll just need to take all your names; just in case."

"Done what, precisely?" Sherlock asked after names were given.

The guard looked around and ran his hand through short, ginger hair. "Don't see what the point in keeping a secret is. Another girl has been attacked, but that's all I'll say. Get back to your rooms and for Christ's sake, be careful."

The guard left without bothering to be sure that the boys complied.

"We won't tell your girlfriends about each other if you don't mention anything that happened here tonight," Sherlock offered Ian flatly before leaving.

"Fine," Ian said, although he didn't sound as though he had any strong convictions about his side of the promise.

Sherlock shot Ian one long, last look and, apparently satisfied, turned sharply away and strode down the darkened hall. John followed, his mind buzzing and a small, vague sense of panic beginning to settle over him.

"Ian couldn't have done it," Sherlock muttered. "We were with him. And his roommate had seen him before. The time difference isn't big enough, so we can eliminate another suspect."

"What do you think about Z?" John asked, keeping his mind on the case and trying not to think about the dangerous facet of his personality that Sherlock had shown that night.

Sherlock smiled. "I think that Ian didn't tell us the whole story."

"Why?"

"He was banging on Z's door for who knows how long, John," Sherlock reminded him. "There's more than just suspicion in that action. Besides, there were small scratches around the lock of Z's door. Ian, without any idea what he was doing, tried to pick it. One can logically assume that Ian believed there was something incriminating in Z's room. The damn guard showed up before I could ascertain what it was, and I don't believe that repeated attempt of asking Ian will go well, so we need to figure it out on out own."

John felt a small, terrified thrill at the use of 'we.' Despite everything, he was absurdly pleased to be included in this.

"I hope it isn't Z," John confessed in a tiny, pained voice.

"Why?" Sherlock looked baffled.

"It's horrific," John muttered. "A teacher is someone we trust, someone who is supposed to help us. To abuse that position is such an abominable way-"

"Don't worry John," Sherlock said with the most dangerous expression he had worn the whole night. "I will personally ensure that Z gets everything he deserves for hurting these girls."


	7. Chapter 7

(A/N: These delays are inexcusable. It's another long one. Quick poll: would you prefer shorter chapters more frequently or these longer ones with some gaps in between? Let me know and please review.)

There was, of course, utter chaos.

Security was doing everything in their power to usher students back into their rooms, but their success was limited. Sherlock immediately descended into the masses and began asking questions. John could only stand still and stare at the scene in front of him.

They had followed the sounds of hysteria to Dorm Hall A, where a tiny blonde girl was being carried away, blood splattered all over her uniform. She looked much worse than Jenny did, but the two shared the same dazed expression.

"Escalating," Sherlock said, materializing at John's side. "And growing very bold. Anyone could have interrupted."

"Who is she?" John asked as the blonde girl was escorted passed them. She looked delicate, like a china doll, her porcelain skin marred by deep red scratches and lacerations.

"Nicole," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Younger than us. I've never seen her before."

"What do you think?" John asked.

"The rapist has developed a taste for it," Sherlock answered quickly. "As I suspected, Jenny was a fluke, he thought couldn't control himself. Victim number two, Nicole, was planned. Well, more planned than last night's encounter."

"Why do you say that?" If anything, the crime seemed messier than the last. More blood, more potential witnesses.

"Nicole has a roommate," Sherlock said. "One who was with a study group for a large portion of the night. Oh, don't look at me like that John. I _was _just asking questions. I'm not psychic."

"So the rapist waited until he knew that Nicole would be alone?"

"Yes. And, as you pointed out, there was more blood. He used more violence this time, but it is still unrefined. He hasn't yet developed his style. I have a feeling that we'll see more victims." Sherlock smiled. "He thinks he's clever, striking again so soon after the last one. He doesn't realize is that all he's done is made my job much easier."

"I'm sorry, did you say his style?" John said, disturbed.

Sherlock merely shrugged. "Yes. Most serial offenders develop a pattern in their crimes as they grow comfortable. Like an artist, each has a distinctive mark or style. What is it?"

John shook his head. "Nothing. Just…nothing. I'm uh… I'm exhausted. I'm heading back to the room."

"Already? But there's so much to-"

"Do it yourself, Sherlock," John sighed. He couldn't explain it exactly, but he suddenly wanted to be as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible. He supposed that the events of the evening were finally beginning to catch up with him.

He waved goodbye, offered a thin smile, turned and wandered away.

Sherlock watched him walk away, a perplexed frown on his face.

…

John was beginning to confuse Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like it. One moment John is standing at his side, a novelty in itself, the next he's looking at Sherlock the same way that everyone else did.

Sherlock half expected his least favorite word to fall from John's lips.

_Freak. _

He supposed that it had something to do with his actions today. Sherlock had to admit that he loosened the leash on his carefully maintained self control. Perhaps it had been too soon. After all, he had to remember that there was so much about himself that John didn't know.

But is seemed so _sudden_. Out of nowhere, John couldn't get away fast enough.

Well, no. Sherlock had to admit that he had subconsciously observed this coming for the last few hours. John grew tenser each time Sherlock let his façade of humanity slip. His fists balled up, the line of his shoulders grew taught, and a frowned permanently etched itself into his face. Yes, the signs had all been there that John had had enough.

Perhaps Sherlock had put too much trust in John too soon, believing that it was okay for his unexpected companion to see the darker parts of his character.

It was just as well. Sherlock worked much better alone anyway.

The crime scene was a problem. There were already guards waiting outside, keeping it closed for the police. It wouldn't be possible for Sherlock to snoop around. He observed what he could from the hallway instead.

There was a trail of blood from Nicole's door. She had still been bleeding heavily when she was found by her roommate. The rape likely occurred within the hour. The fact that the girl was nearly catatonic meant that the drug was in its peak efficiency.

But how was it administered? Was it more Xyrem, or had something else been employed this time? This rape was obviously premeditated; the roommate's absence had been calculated.

What was her name again?

Ah, yes. Diana. She was part of a study group that met Tuesdays and Thursdays until nine thirty. Today was the first meeting of the term. It was common knowledge on campus that the group existed; in fact, it was the biggest one of its kind. However, the same fact made the membership more obscure. With around one hundred students consistently showing up at some meetings and not others, it is often difficult to determine the members, meaning that someone had to know specifically that Diana was involved, either having been to the meetings themselves or having been well acquainted with Diana.

Sherlock saw her membership the instant he had spoken to her. It was the only credible information provided; the rest was obscured by trauma and the girl's own natural tendency towards exaggeration. John, at the time, had been staring transfixed at the scene of the crime, oblivious to Sherlock's actions.

Would Mr. Z know that Diana was in the group? Hard to tell. Sherlock would have to figure out if she was in one of Z's classes.

"Get back to your dorm, Sherlock," Greg said quietly from behind him. Sherlock turned around, realizing for the first time that the hall had emptied as he stood lost in thought. "The police are on their way. We don't need them making any assumptions."

A wave of genuine gratitude washed over Sherlock. He immediately suppressed it. Disgusting thing, sentiment.

"I'd like to take a look around the room," Sherlock said flatly. Greg was shaking his head before Sherlock even finished speaking.

"Sorry, can't even pretend that I have any authority on the matter." His words, however, didn't match his body language. He leaned in briefly, lowering his voice. "If the headmaster happens to mention some details to me, I'll be sure to pass it on, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Don't bother," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I'll just break in tomorrow."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Greg said, a warning in his eyes. "And you'd do best to pretend you didn't think of it. It's dangerous to be different right now, Sherlock. The school's going to be hysterical. People are going to get paranoid. You are an easy target. Trust me on this: keep your head down."

Sherlock listened to, and then immediately disregarded everything Greg said.

"One thing," he murmured as he prepared to take his leave. Greg gave him a weary look. "I do want to know if street GHB was used, or it was more Xyrem. The distinction is critical. You will be able to tell by the concentrations in the girls' bloodstreams. Nicole's should be staggeringly high. Jenny's comparatively insignificant. If you can get a look at the actual blood tests-"

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing for Sherlock to leave. "But really, cops will be here any second. You need to go."

Sherlock gave Greg a mock salute before turning to leave.

Externally, Sherlock appeared suave, calm. Internally, his mind was threatening to drive itself to madness.

Sherlock was getting very frustrated that he was being left, intentionally or not, in the dark. Sherlock had not been lying to Ian. He got very dangerous when he was frustrated.

…

John punched a pillow until he felt better.

He didn't know what was wrong with himself, honestly. It wasn't as though he had been expected Sherlock to suddenly start acting normal as the time of their acquaintance lengthened. He guessed that he just hadn't expected his personality to take such a…dark turn.

On top of it all, John felt he was being lied to. He didn't know what Sherlock had been like before the last two days. He didn't feel as though it was his right to demand the information, but that didn't stop the insatiable desire to know.

It was like an itch he couldn't scratch, and it was driving him insane.

Part of it was protectiveness. He was, somehow, already fond of the nutter that shared a room with him. He wanted to understand why people were so frightened of him. Maybe then John could more effectively step between Sherlock and the hate that was directed towards him. As it was, his defense had holes. He was defending something that he didn't know how to protect.

The other part was fear. Sherlock obviously wielded deception without any appearance of guilt. For all John knew, he was being manipulated as well. Sherlock didn't have any qualms about stringing Molly along. Was it possible that John was in the same position?

Lastly, it was Sherlock's disturbing callousness. John knew that some of it had to be a show. He had caught enough glimpses of Sherlock smiling, of Sherlock comfortably walking at John's side. He had seen the wild passion in Sherlock's eyes when it came to the case and the genuine rage at whoever was responsible for these attacks. Sherlock sincerely felt that the culprit should be punished. There was real emotion there, but at times it was as though Sherlock was trying to disregard his own feelings the same way he did everyone else's.

"I'd suggest that you get used to it," Sherlock's baritone echoed from the doorway, "but no one else has bothered to. I shouldn't expect anything different from you."

"Yes, you should," John said, rubbing his face with his hands. "I'm your roommate. And I want to be your friend. How did you know what I was thinking, anyway?"

"Your face is remarkably expressive," Sherlock said, shutting the door and crossing the room to lie down on his bed. "And while you attempt to restrain involuntary body language, there are still small tells that reveal your emotions."

"I'm sorry," John said sincerely. "I shouldn't have left."

Sherlock was confused. "Why would you have felt the need to stay, exactly?"

"Because I said that we were in this together, that I wasn't going to let you do anything stupid." John smiled slightly. "I told Mrs. Hudson I'd look after you, and I have no desire to see what breaking a promise made to her looks like."

Sherlock flashed a real smile. "Not pretty, I assure you." He was quiet for a second. "Was it the violence, the threats, or…?"

"What? That made me leave?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his expression carefully neutral. "I could tell that something was bothering you, something I did, but it could have been any number of things. I was just wondering what set you off."

"It's nothing you did, not really," John said. "I'm just stuck in my own head. I was letting stupid things bother me."

"There is no need to spare my feelings, John," Sherlock sighed. "It's not as though I have many to bruise."

"Okay, fine. That's exactly what bothers me," John finally snapped in exasperation. "It's not what you're saying, or what you're doing, it's pretending to be what everyone thinks you are. You're walking around, acting like a sociopath, when you most definitely are not, and you're intentionally shoving people away. You have absolutely no reason to act that way."

"I have every reason," Sherlock said, the monotone of his voice spoiled by the flash of anger in his eyes. "People hate me, John. And I learned a long time ago that trying to be someone more tolerable for the average person only ends in my rejection." Sherlock's face was turning red, his eyes bright. "I'm _broken,_ John. I was born broken, so don't bother thinking that you can fix me. It's happened before, and both parties ended up miserable."

"I'm not going to fix you," John sighed. "Because, personally, _I _don't think that there is anything to fix, when you're being yourself, that is. I have nothing against you; I have issues with the sociopathic mask you wear."

"Have you ever considered that perhaps it isn't a mask?"

John sighed. This was going to get much worse before it ever got better, and he didn't have the energy for that. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. "While we're on the subject of things that bother us, I'm not exactly a fan of the way that you retreat. I'm not going to hurt you if you aggravate me; there is not need to be on the defensive." Sherlock hesitated for a second before delivering his final remark, a blow he knew he should have withheld even as it hit home. "I won't hit you because you upset me. I am not your father."

"Stop it," John said, very quietly, his voice revealing the darkness secreted away behind weary sighs and half hearted smiles. "_Do not_ talk about things you pretend to understand. And do not talk about my dad."

There was a tense silence where John was afraid Sherlock was going to refuse to drop the subject.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock finally murmured.

…

The next morning was tense and awkward.

John wanted to apologize, but he didn't know exactly how to begin the conversation, and underneath all that was the fear that Sherlock would just reject anything he had to say.

…

Sherlock felt a little bit like punching himself in the face. John was moping around the dorm room, and Sherlock could practically see the gears of thought whirring around in his head. He hoped, possibly irrationally, that John was trying to find a way to fix the uncomfortable funk that had settled over the room. Sherlock knew that John would have to be the one to do it. He was abysmal with that sort of thing.

But perhaps John was waiting for Sherlock to apologize? Sherlock wasn't sure when the discussion had turned to conflict last night, but he was fairly certain that both of them shared the blame.

Surely John had to realize that Sherlock wouldn't be the one to deal with this sort of thing.

Right?

…

"I'm sorry," both of them said at the same time, causing a silence even more awkward than before.

John watched Sherlock shuffle from foot to foot, looking painfully uncomfortable. The apology sounded as though it was more forced off his lips than easily offered. He realized that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to finish this awkward but necessary confrontation.

"It's fine," John said. "My fault, anyway."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I suppose I should not have brought up your father."

"I suppose you're right," John said, mimicking Sherlock's tone.

The tense mood, sadly, did not break.

"So…" John said, wondering if a more awkward atmosphere had ever existed before. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"We have to go to Biology," Sherlock said, his tone returning to the formal, businesslike variation that John was familiar with. "We need to be able to observe Z, see if there are any noticeable changes in his behavior."

"I don't think I can do it," John admitted, feeling his skin crawl. "I don't think I can face him, knowing what he did."

"Don't make assumptions, John," Sherlock chided. "He's our prime suspect, but we don't have anything incriminating. We still have nothing to tie him to the Xyrem, nor do we have his alibi."

"Did you find anything to link him to Nicole?"

"She's taking advanced Biology, but with another teacher. His name is Mr. Henderson. I don't believe that you have met him yet."

"No," John confirmed. "I've barely met any teachers."

"Not very popular, from my understanding," Sherlock said, gathering his laptop and his other things together. "Honestly, I'm sure that most students would accuse him as a rapist after being introduced to him. 'Creepy,' I believe, is his epithet. Perhaps I'll take a look at him if Z proves to be innocent."

"Do you think that's likely?"

"No," Sherlock said. "But again, let's not jump to conjecture without the necessary facts. I only want to hand something foolproof to Detective Inspector Grayson. If any other officer was on the case, I'd be feeding him hints and tips. As it is, the only thing Grayson will accept from me is something irrefutable." Sherlock's eyes flashed, his lips twitching with the ghost of a grin. "I must say, I adore the additional challenge."

…

John was wondering what would happened if he just ran across the room and broke all of Mr. Z's stupid teeth.

He thought he would be able to get through the class, but it turned out that he had greatly overestimated his own self restraint. As it was, he was gripping the bottom of his desk so tightly he wouldn't be surprised if the entire thing snapped.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was the picture of relaxation. He was slightly too big for the space afforded by the desks, but he managed to find a way to sprawl in his customary fashion nonetheless.

The only thing that betrayed Sherlock's focus were his eyes, with were narrowed to cat-like slits, watching Z the way predator watches prey.

John had a small satisfaction knowing that the hunter was now being hunted.

"Can anyone tell me," Z was saying, "how to calculate biodiversity in an ecological community? Mr. Watson?"

John froze, realizing that he hadn't been paying attention to a single word said since the first day of school, which was now two classes ago. He had absolutely no idea what was happening.

"Uhh…"

He felt his face turn red as other students slowly turned around to watch him drown in his confusion.

Mr. Z sighed, but smiled at John as though he didn't blame him for not understanding quite yet. It was a hard subject, after all. Endlessly patient, he said, "Don't worry about it, John. I'll explain it."

He turned back to the board and went through the steps of various useless calculations. John slumped back in his seat, his embarrassment quickly turning to hate.

Mr. Z. That bastard.

A piece of paper landed on John's desk. He looked up, and noticed that Sherlock was pointedly _not _making eye contact.

He sighed, picked it up, unwrapped it, and read:

_Z takes pleasure in putting students in positions they are uncomfortable with. He only calls on students who are not paying attention, and it isn't to teach them a lesson. He likes to watch people squirm. _

John looked up quickly and saw Sherlock watching him carefully. John met his eyes for a second before turning away and giving a nearly invisible nod of his head, showing Sherlock that he understood.

There was potential there. Sure, there was a massive gap between calling a student out on not paying attention and attacking someone, but if Z had sadistic inclinations…

"Do you understand now, Mr. Watson?"

John looked for it carefully, and finally saw what Sherlock had; the slightly feral edge to Z's smile, as though he was baring his teeth instead of flashing a grin.

"Yes, sir," John said, mirroring Z's expression.

Mr. Z's expression faltered slightly, almost microscopically, before he turned around and continued teaching.

John sat back, absurdly pleased.

Z wasn't the only predator in the room.

…

"Are you familiar with graphology?" Sherlock asked sitting next to John at lunch.

John was surprised for a moment, he hadn't seen Sherlock at lunch before, then he cringed internally, knowing that it would be moments before the guys he was sitting with suddenly remembered they had something else to do.

"No," John responded, shoveling food in his mouth. Sherlock picked at his own meal without actually putting anything in his mouth.

"It's the study of handwriting analysis and its relation to psychology, the science behind determining personality through the characteristics of a handwriting sample. It's been controversial for the last century, and considered a pseudoscience by many."

There. Everyone else left. He had Sherlock were now alone at the table. He was just happy that no one had parted with the comment, "Freak."

Sherlock appeared to have paused for some sort of dramatic effect. "And your point is?" John prompted.

"I've been analyzing Z's handwriting," Sherlock said, opening up his laptop and indicating the screen. There was a picture of the white board in Z's classroom up in some extremely complicated looking program.

"When did you even take this picture?"

"Not important," Sherlock said evasively. "The point: he has every single indicator of aggression and violence."

"He has crazy handwriting?"

"If you insist on putting it that simply, yes, he has crazy handwriting," Sherlock confirmed, rolling his eyes.

"Is this real proof?" John asked, a tad skeptically, he had to admit.

"Not at all," Sherlock said sincerely. "It's utterly useless. Didn't you hear me call it a pseudoscience? Phrenology has more merits than this. I was simply bored in my English class and I wanted to clear the table of all those idiots you keep trying to associate with."

"I am trying to make friends," John snapped, attempting to ignore a flash of anger. "You know: branch out, socialize, and interact with a variety of people in my age group? Have you heard of that?"

"Dull," Sherlock said with an air of finality, as though his opinion was the only one that mattered. "Besides, you wouldn't want to be friends with them anyway. "Didn't I already warn you that Trevor has serious anxiety problems? And that Sam comes from a household with a history of domestic abuse? You could do better. You are above these idiots, John."

All the anger suddenly faded away. The words were uttered in a detached monotone, fired off like bullets in Sherlock's usual manner, but from the detective they were the highest praise John had received. He was speechless. Sherlock, on the other hand didn't seem to think anything of it. He was busy on his computer, his fingers flying gracefully over the keys.

"We're going to have a surprise assembly after this," Sherlock announced, his eyes going bright with interest. "Next class we will be filed into the main reception hall shortly after attendance is taken. It's likely going to be a weak explanation of the attacks, and some sort of lecture on proper safety. I wonder what admin's plan of action is? Will they be shutting down the school, increasing security? I can't find any files on the topic, and I've been searching all morning."

"Do you ever do actual school work in school?" John wondered out loud. Sherlock just snorted laughter and went back to typing.

"Um, excuse me?" a small and vaguely familiar voice asked from behind them.

John turned around, looked in confusion for a moment, before he recognized tiny Anthony Blithe from the day before, all wide eyes and puffy hair.

"Oh, yeah. Hey, mate," John said, turning around in his seat to face Anthony. Sherlock looked up from his typing just long enough to flick his gaze over at Anthony and smirk.

"I heard about Nicole," Anthony said, shifting from foot to foot. "She's a friend of mine. I just wanted to…I mean, you don't think that…just…did he use my-"

"Oh, was your medication used?" John asked. Anthony nodded. "Sherlock?"

"I'm expecting a text from Lestrade on that topic…" Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Any second now, actually. Take a seat, Anthony, and I'll be able to inform you the moment I find out." Sherlock offered Anthony a weak smile before going back to his work.

John was stuck by the surprising humanity in the offer. "That's…very kind of you, Sherlock." He smiled at his roommate in approval as Anthony took the seat across from John.

John turned to speak to the boy only to find him fast asleep.

"Wow, I have to admit, I forgot about the narcolepsy," John said, fascinated at the sudden change. "Does he just fall asleep like this all the time?"

"Cataplexy, to be precise, I believe. He's emotionally distraught," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, "and his medication has been stolen. This is likely worse than usual. I would guess that he normally has it under control. He's able to keep his condition relatively secret, after all. I had some associates of mine ask some questions and do some eavesdropping to determine just how many people knew about his condition. Oh, look, he's awake now."

"Sorry," Anthony said, running his hands through his puffy hair. He was bleary eyed and looked a little confused. "That's been happening a lot today."

"It's all fine, mate," John said reassuringly. There was a slightly awkward pause. "Why don't you tell us about Nicole while we wait for the text? Are you sure Lestrade will just text you that information, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade and I have an understanding," Sherlock said simply. "Go on," he said, flicking his silver gaze to Anthony. "Tell us about Nicole. What was she doing yesterday?"

"Homework in the library for a bit," Anthony said. "I was supposed to be with her, but I uh, talked to you guys instead. And then passed out in the hallway for a while, but I caught her just as she was leaving. She said she had to go talk to her teachers. She was going to miss some school next week for her uncle's funeral, and she was trying to organize her make-up work and schedule retakes for any missed assignments. It took her, like, an hour, before she was finished. She came late to band practice."

"She's in a band?" John asked.

Anthony nodded. "Well, I mean, the school's band. She plays the tenor saxophone. The director was upset, since it was the first rehearsal. She didn't tell him that she would be late."

"Was that it?" John asked.

"It was the last I saw her," Anthony said with a shrug. "I'm in the band with her. I play clarinet, so we didn't really talk much during practice. We chatted for a bit afterwards, but she said she had more work to do, and left. The rest of the day…not a word. Not unusual, she's a dedicated student. When she starts working, she doesn't get distracted easily."

"What time did rehearsal end?" John asked, taking out a small notebook that had pretty much become the 'case book' at this point.

"It goes from four to six," he said. "Last year we usually went straight to dinner afterwards, but she had more work to do. She left around…I don't know, six fifteen?"

Sherlock shut his laptop. "It was just after nine thirty when she was discovered. That leaves roughly three and a half hours unaccounted for. She had been dosed, I would estimate, around an hour to two hours before she was found. I believe the attack itself would have occurred within the hour. That leaves a large amount of time where she would have been, I assume, unsupervised. Risky for the attacker, isn't it? Why wait so long? And how exactly did he get into her room? Or Jenny's room, for that matter."

Anthony fell asleep again.

"That must suck so hard," John commented, easing the boy's head down onto the table. He glanced around, noticing that the room was beginning to empty. "Lunch is nearly over…should we…?"

"He'll be awake shortly," Sherlock said, putting his laptop back into its bag. His phone chirped an alert as he spoke. He picked it up, flicked his thumb over the screen to unlock it, and read the message with a frown.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Street GHB," Sherlock sighed, putting the phone away. "The concentration was _very _high, nearly an overdose. He would have had to shove most of the bottle of Xyrem down her throat to achieve the same effect. She might have died, had a drop more been in her body. But as I thought, this attack was planned with more than a few hours notice. Although, I would guess that the victim herself was more of a spontaneous decision."

John attempted to nudge Anthony awake. The boy twitched into consciousness after another moment.

"How long was I…?"

"A minute, don't worry," John reassured him. "Sherlock got the text. It's highly unlikely that Xyrem was used."

The phone chirped again. Sherlock read the message with an expression the swiftly morphed into shock.

"What?" Anthony and John asked in unison.

"They found an empty syringe in her room," Sherlock said. "That's how he got so much into her in such a short period of time. But that means…" Sherlock's eyes went wide, the rush of his thoughts nearly visible.

"Tell us what it is," John demanded quietly, after a moment.

"She was dosed in her room. She had to have been. Why else would she have been carrying around the drug? And if it was injected intravenously…oh, it would have worked much, _much _faster. She probably didn't even get back into her room until eight thirty at the earliest. The attacker could have held her down, dosed her, and waited moments before she was under the full effects. But how? How did he get into her room? Did she just let him in?"

The bell rang. They were alone but for some of the cleaning staff and a few fellow stragglers.

"Go to class, John," Sherlock ordered. "I won't be attending school for the rest of the day; I need to think. Anthony, I think you will need to refill your prescription, I sincerely doubt the attacker will return the Xyrem to you. In the meantime, try to remain calm."

Sherlock rushed out of the room and John trotted after him. "How would Z have gotten into her room?"

"I don't know! He isn't her teacher, he's never been her teacher, and most girls do not typically let strange men into their dorms. I don't understand this at all. I need to think. Go to class, John. Go to the assembly and tell me everything they say: I need to know what angle the school is taking. It could be that they're going to try to cover it up."

"Would the school really do that?"

Sherlock laughed. It was not a kind sound. "Trust me. Admin is more than willing to turn a blind eye if they are given the proper incentive, no matter the crime." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's look of horror. "Really, John. If you don't know how corrupted the world is by now, then I'm afraid that I won't be able to help you. Everyone is a criminal, John. The only difference is that some have yet to commit their crimes."

...

"I am sure that all of you have heard about the recent tragedies that have taken place the last two days here at Baker Academy," the headmaster addressed the student body. It took John a few minutes to remember that his name was Professor Garret.

"We are doing everything that we can to ensure that the criminal is caught. In the meantime, we strongly advise you to exercise the proper amount of caution…"

At no point did he name the victims or the crime.

…

A serial rapist.

That's all anyone talked about. An isolated crime was one thing: horrible, yes, but a freak occurrence, nothing more.

But a serial rapist…

Terror mingled with morbid excitement. No one seemed to know exactly how they were supposed to feel, and John had to admit he was in the same boat.

Some of the girls were starting an informal buddy system, just as a way of ensuring that they never went anywhere alone. Others were planning to transfer schools as soon as they could. Most were indifferent, unable to grasp the concept that they were in danger.

John walked through the crowd of students numbly, listening to everything he could discern from the crowds of voices and not really paying much attention to where he was going.

Which was how he bumped into Greg and Sally.

"Oh, hey," Greg said, shaking his hand. "John, was it? Good to see you again. Has Sherlock driven you mad yet?"

"Getting there," John sighed. Greg laughed, thinking that John had been joking.

John wished that he was.

"I'm sure that the Freak thinks he can solve the case better than the police can," Sally said, looking at John through narrowed eyes. "I bet he's already gotten leads the police never would have found. Known things only the rapist would know. Well I think-"

"We all know what you think, Sally," Greg interrupted. His tone suggested that they'd had this argument before. "And I'm telling you, it's ridiculous."

"But is it?" Sally countered. "For Christ's sake, the guy introduces himself to people as a sociopath!"

"You _can't _think that Sherlock did this." John was absolutely baffled. "For God's sake, I've been with him the last few days."

"Every second?" Sally asked. "Can you account for his whereabouts at every moment? Do you know where he is now?"

"Well, no," John sputtered. "But-"

"Don't you think it looks a bit suspicious," Sally said, her voice like ice, "that girls are attacked the day after a new guy comes to school and moves in with the sociopath?"

"Sally!" Greg cut her off.

The damage, however, had already been done. John's fists clenched up at his sides. He muttered some strained goodbyes before leaving as soon as possible, pushing through the crowds of students as fast as he could.

Dorm Hall B had never seemed so far away. John opened the door and retreated into the safety of his room, shutting the world out firmly behind him.

"People think I'm the attacker, don't they?" Sherlock asked, not opening his eyes as John entered. He was lying motionless on the bed, his hands clasped over his chest and his body completely straight.

"How did you-"

"Your breathing is accelerated, you are sputtering in the way you do when you're upset, and you slammed the door behind you as you entered. You are angry about something, defensive, most likely, and considering what the topic of conversation on anyone's lips would have been, there are two things that could possible get you to this state of hyper vigilance. One, someone accused you. Two, someone accused me. Considering my history at this school, the second is far more likely."

"Well, you were right."

"Of course. How was the assembly?"

John told him what had been said. Sherlock frowned.

"Bland. How very disappointing. Anything interesting happen?"

"Nothing in particular," John sighed, sitting at his desk. "Did you think of anything?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, finally cracking one eye open. "I need to break into Jenny's dorm room again. And while I'm at it, take a look at Nicole's. Two crime scenes make everything so much easier. I can find patterns between the two. Lovely thing, patterns. They're always so incriminating."

"And how exactly are you going to manage this?"

"Well, I was rather hoping that you would help me."

"Brilliant. Just freaking brilliant."


End file.
